


Do Not Remove Cover

by sexonastick



Series: Some Assembly Required [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Pitch Perfect (2012)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Minor Violence, Stupidity, Teenagers, pre-Beca/Chloe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-04 08:04:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sexonastick/pseuds/sexonastick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A timeline of Beca Stark's malfunctioning heart.</p><p>Manufacturer's warranty not guaranteed past ten years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. to prevent electric shock

**Author's Note:**

> This was obviously inspired by [dubcliq](http://dubcliq.tumblr.com/)'s fantastic [graphics](http://dubcliq.tumblr.com/post/42192169296/the-avengers-next-generation-the-avengers-pitch). My main tweak was making Aubrey into Steve's kid -- which does make Luke a demigod with a six pack, yes, though not appearing in this story -- since my version of her made more sense for me that way.
> 
> Thanks to _several_ people for frequent feedback and letting me bounce ideas off your heads, but to [booklover81](http://archiveofourown.org/users/booklover81) and [theagonyofblank](http://archiveofourown.org/users/theagonyofblank) in particular, for whom the harassment was probably constant.
> 
> Title (and chapter titles) taken from The Magnetic Fields' "Epitaph For My Heart."
> 
> I'm [perpetuallyfive](http://perpetuallyfive.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, btw. Since I do get asked.

Tony approaches debate in much the same way that other men might go about demolishing a building. He starts with broad strokes of hyperbole, going for maximum damage, and then pinpoints individual weaknesses. Destroy structural integrity and ultimately anything will collapse. 

If he knew his daughter just a _little_ better than he does, he might even be winning the argument.

But they've circled this territory too many times, and her dad's never known how to undermine his _own_ ideals. His greatest weakness in any fight with his daughter is how similar they are. "You're rash, impulsive, and hard-headed," he says, and Beca's pretty sure those are compliments. "But you're small. You're weak, and a small wind could knock you over." 

Okay, slightly less flattering. "Well, _thanks_."

"I'm doing this," he says; "to save you from yourself." Which Beca is pretty sure is the closest that Tony Stark's pride will allow him to come to saying: _I surrender_. 

She accepts his defeat with a lot of dignity and grace, barely smirking.

*

But this isn't how it starts. This isn't the beginning.

*

She is five years old and prodding Mr. Banner with a taser snatched from Mrs. Barton's purse. Lunch does not go as planned that day.

She's nine, visiting Central Park with her mom, and some woman she doesn't know is yelling. "Children no older than you," she's saying. "Don't you know what your daddy's done?"

And also, this time aimed at her mother, "You're raising the child of a monster."

Beca's pretty sure that she needs medication. (Especially after mom hits her before the security team arrives.)

She's twelve the first time she sees video of one of her father's bombs going off and knows for certain that it's his. Everybody knows, it's all over the news, and all the people with cameras outside their house are even louder than usual. Angrier.

The world is a really angry place, at least on the ground.

The sky's pretty great, though.

*

"Ms. Stark?"

There's a male voice coming from the other end of the lab, lost somewhere in the clutter. "Rebecca Stark," it says again, getting louder.

Oh, _right_. His name is Peter something. Beca _vaguely_ remembers him contacting her last week about an interview -- scheduled for approximately _now_ , seems like. Oops.

"Yeah," she calls back, still busy typing away, making calculations in the back of her mind.

There's a moment of silence, and then his voice comes again, a little more strained as he says, "Are you-- _Where_ are you?"

Beca smirks and spins her chair around, rolling a few feet to wave at him from around the remains of a dismantled satellite. "Back here, dude."

They're in Beca's own personal lab -- acquired at age twelve when she gained access to top secret S.H.I.E.L.D. documents by breaking into her father's research facilities (for the fifteenth time) on a dare -- and unlike her dad's approach to constructing a work environment, Beca has built her own space keeping really specific ideas about human behavior in mind.

Tony Stark almost _never_ has other people in mind -- except in terms of like "will this impress everyone and make them love me more, yes or no" -- but Beca's approach is pretty much exactly the opposite. The general frustration with other people is something they both share, but Beca has found a way to treat _people_ like any other engineering problem. You can anticipate and direct responses, like with any rat in a maze.

That's why she's arranged for a smell not all that unlike heated motor oil to be pumped through the filtration system into the lab. It's totally artificial, safe and environmentally friendly, but it immediately sets newcomers on edge. They don't expect any room in the opulent Stark Tower to smell like a motor pool, apparently. 

Even the clutter is pretty artfully crafted. It obscures Beca's work bench from the door and leaves several obstacles scattered along the way so that any visitor is almost guaranteed to make their arrival known through a series of clangs and stumbles. If Beca doesn't bother to look up at the feeds from any one of the ten cameras set up around the room and surrounding hallways for a prolonged stretch of time, she still knows when someone's arrived. 

Sometimes she gets in the zone, she gets distracted. It's nice to have options. (That one she _did_ get from dad.)

"Rebecca Stark," says the man once he finally makes it to her desk, beaming and offering her his hand. 

Though honestly, it might be more accurate to call him a _boy_. He looks barely old enough to have graduated with a degree in journalism (might even still be in college), and for just a moment Beca considers testing his grasp of journalistic ethics. Just for fun.

"Beca. Just Beca." She gives him a tense smile instead of taking the offered hand, and it drops back to his side lamely.

"Oh," he says, sounding both confused and disappointed. "Your father said you prefer Rebecca."

"Oh, wow." Beca smirks. "What else did Anthony tell you?"

"Sorry?" The reporter blinks and fumbles with his phone, setting it to record. " _Oh._ " Well good, at least he caught on without her having to explain.

She's fourteen and has already learned that other people are mostly inconvenient pests that don't really _get_ maybe 90% of the things that come out of Beca's mouth, whether it's science or sarcasm.

But interviews can be useful in their own way. She crafts her image and message about as deliberately as she arranges her work room.

The guy (or kid) is nervous now. He's eager to make amends, to improve her impression of him, and that's good. It means he'll be easy to push the way she wants him to go. Not even really a push; just a nudge.

Directed properly, other people can really make themselves useful.

*

Beca is eight years old the first time she breaks into her father's lab. Obviously she's been there before, but only under his strict supervision.

Which by the way, is total crap. Tony Stark can talk a big game about safety concerns, but Beca's pretty sure that it's almost all for her mom's benefit. Considering he flies around with ancient gods fighting giants or whatever, it's hard to buy his lectures on proper use of safety goggles.

Point is, Beca was never allowed to see the _cool_ stuff with dad around, so a break in becomes pretty necessary.

It takes the security team twenty minutes to catch her, which is unacceptable. She'll never have time to explore everything she wants to see in half hour increments. That'd take a lifetime, and security might even improve by that point. Help is obviously required, and so she enlists the twins.

The Barton twins are like the _definition_ of convenient. Grab a dictionary; their picture's probably there. (Just the one picture, since they're basically a two-for-one kind of deal.) They project innocent and unassuming, and for some reason Beca's mom is _convinced_ that Chloe's a saint. (Maybe it's some kind of redhead conspiracy thing.) 

The point is that they make good decoys.

Sometimes she even lets them in on the actual plan. For example, Chloe is _bendy_ in a way that's useful for getting through vents when Beca's small size isn't enough for the job. Jesse is perceptive, if sometimes a little clumsy in coming up with his own lies on the spot. (Chloe's good with that, she's got his back.) They make a good duo, but the three of them as a team are _fantastic._

With their help, Beca manages to catalogue most of the contents of her dad's facility inside Stark Tower. Jesse even helps her string a ransom note from the ceiling, blackmailing her father in exchange for a data disk. (Turns out he can remotely wipe it, so she makes duplicates in the future.) This is all a learning process. It's informative, but maybe a little bit fun too.

Teamwork turns out to not be such a bad thing, so long as you assemble your own team.

*

Beca is thirteen when she flirts briefly with the idea of public school. The experiment lasts little more than a month.

She can't even remember now what point she was trying to make, but it's something to do with her dad throwing money at her education and thinking his daughter's too good for what the _normal_ children of New York City are receiving. Like she's special just for being born a Stark.

Turns out he's not the only one who thinks this way, since everybody at Beca's new school assumes she must really think she's something special too. Like she's a real asshole just for being born.

They hate her, the clothes she wears, her piercings and smirk. They snicker at the security team that she _begs_ to please leave her a block from the building, but who insist on leading her all the way to the front door and picking her up at the end of every day. 

They hate everything that makes her a Stark, especially her family itself. The one none of these assholes have ever met.

"Hey," some dirtbag in a shitty sweater hisses at her in Biology. "Hey, Stark."

She sends him a quick glance, then looks back to the front. 

"I saw your dad on the news. Who's that hot chick he was with?" He laughs. "It wasn't your mom."

Beca thinks about processes of decomposition and decay. She pictures the few neurons that exist in the kid's head firing (misfiring), and the arteries at the base of his brain hemorrhaging. "You're right." She smirks without bothering to look back. "Pretty sure it was _yours_."

*

Being a girl (being so small) comes in handy for the first time in her life. They only shoulder her against a few lockers, mutter and hiss viciously under their breath, but actual _physical_ contact never goes further than that. If she were Tony Stark's _son_ , she's pretty sure they'd just kick her ass.

But the verbal assaults are oddly effective. They find all the cracks and weak spots her father doesn't even know are there, and hammer _hard_.

If her dad wants to start winning in fights with his daughter, he could probably take some tips from the malcontents in Mrs. Babbage's third period Trigonometry.

_"You think you're hot shit just cause your dad blew up some orphanages twenty years ago?"_

_"What do Chloe Barton's tits look like? Don't tell me you don't know."_

_"How many models did your dad nail before he settled for his secretary?"_

*

Beca doesn't leave school voluntarily.

She's suspended for assaulting another student -- big, twice her size, but pretty fucking surprised when she jumps out of her seat and clocks him.

Her dad comes to collect her, and she's waiting on the front steps, paper towel pressed to her bleeding nose. He looks impressed.

"Don't tell mom," she mumbles, vowels swollen almost as much as the left side of her face.

"I hate to break it to you, kiddo, but I'm pretty sure she'll be able to tell."

*

She doesn't make any new friends in public school.

In fact, Beca's never made any friends that she wasn't introduced to by her parents first.

Probably for the best. It's hard enough keeping the ones she's got.

*

They're mad at her again for _something_ , and it must be pretty big since even Chloe can barely look at her. (It's always Jesse who starts sulking first -- usually with little reason, honestly -- but once Chloe joins in Beca knows she's officially _screwed_.) It must be something she said. It's always something she _said_ \-- usually a joke they take the wrong way.

The twins take a lot of things personally, as if they haven't known Beca for her entire life. Like they don't know they're two of the only people (on a pretty narrow fucking list) that she bothers to _try_ with because she cares about the real _them_ and not just a message.

You'd think they'd at least appreciate the effort. This shit is harder than the book on molecular epidemiology she's been studying in her spare time.

"Russia?" she offers, going for a gamble. 

(Bad idea, probably. Her _dad_ is the gambler, and her luck has always qualified as sporadic.) 

No answer, which maybe is to be expected. She should offer some context first. "Your mom's from Russia originally, right?" Beca hesitates, and then, off Chloe's look; "Or … the Soviet Union? I mean, I'm not totally clear on the difference, but."

Beca might be a super genius when it comes to tech and engineering, but certain things still escape her full comprehension. Like geography, or conversations longer than thirty minutes that don't end in someone shouting.

"Yeah," Jesse says, looking suspicious.

"Well, so I've got a plane." Technically, her _dad_ has a plane, but sometimes Beca doesn't make those distinctions since really he has like five and he doesn't need all of them at once, now does he? "So we could go to Russia." She glances between them. "If you think that'd be cool."

It's evident really quickly that Jesse does _not_ think so. "Fuck you, Beca."

"Oh." Like, _really_ uncool apparently. "Okay."

"Is that how you think this works?"

"How… what works?"

" _Exactly_."

Completely at a loss, Beca turns to Chloe for backup -- and it's obviously going to be slow in coming. _She_ still looks pissed -- though maybe a bit confused by Jesse too, so at least there's _that_ \-- and all she says is, "We don't want to go to Russia, Beca."

"Yeah, no, I--" Beca shoots a glance at Jesse's death glare. "I definitely got that."

Dealing with twins is really convenient except when it's the _worst thing on the planet_ , which is any time they gang up on her with an attack of _feelings_. It's not like Beca is a robot -- all jokes about the metal suit aside -- but that doesn't mean she runs around dumping her emotions on other people like a toxic overflow. 

Jesse's the worst at containing his shit, but whatever he's got must be contagious because he tends to put Chloe on edge too.

Add in Aubrey, and Beca's totally finished. 

That is, on days when Aubrey bothers to hang out with them at all. (Which, thank imaginary god, isn't all that often.)

*

Aubrey Rogers is one of Beca's least favorite people, but that's only on the list of people she considers worth talking to _at all_ , which is actually a pretty short list of fairly exclusive company. Aubrey probably should be flattered. (Should, but won't be. Her lack of perspective is one of the many things that Beca finds pretty intolerable about Aubrey.) It's not that she's a _bad_ person exactly. If anything, her innate and almost excessive _goodness_ is a big part of the problem.

Her intolerance for any imperfection or moral grey in others is a constant source of frustration, and there's no one she seems to find more fault with than Beca.

Aubrey has a _lot_ of problems with Beca's methodology, philosophy, and hell probably even her hair. They just don't really see eye-to-eye, which probably makes sense when her dad occupies most of his time spent around the Starks for as long as Beca can remember rolling his eyes at both father and daughter. (Sure, he's _Steve Rogers_ , so he does it in a really well-meaning and affectionate way, but still. Eye rolling.) The flair for dramatic disappointment must be hereditary.

So of course she takes it upon herself to _improve_ the rest of them through constant lectures and rebuffs. It's basically Aubrey's number one hobby to tell Beca that she's clearly wrong about _something_ (usually involving people, almost never science). It's challenging, because conversations with Aubrey are like falling into a wormhole comprised of thin-lips and frown lines. 

Or sometimes Aubrey brings up the evil of the Nazis -- a topic they're all pretty much in agreement on, with no real need for discussion or debate -- and it almost makes you feel sorry for the kind of home life she must have. Like everybody thinks their parents don't _get_ them, but Aubrey's dad is _literally_ straight out of the past. It would almost be enough to make Beca feel bad for her if every other conversation with Aubrey didn't make her want to stick her head inside a nuclear reactor.

Which she could do. She's stolen her dad's security code access to at least one test site.

*

They start constructing the suit together just a few weeks shy of Beca's fifteenth birthday. It's nice -- the first time in years they've worked for so long together in the lab on a single project -- and neither raises their voice except to cheer whenever mom brings dinner.

"How's it coming?" she asks, trying to hide the disapproval from her voice.

If Tony notices, it doesn't show in his smile. "Kid's a genius. Wonder where she gets it from."

Her mom leans in to kiss Beca's cheek and the closeness almost makes her blush, eyes flicking back down to the transistor in her hands. "Whatever," she mumbles, mouth quirking. Her mother's mouth is gentle and cool against her forehead, and her dad's hand is warm on her knee.

It's nice.

*

They design an arc reactor core meant to work outside Beca's organic system. Her dad already has a few models in place, but they improve upon his original designs _together_.

Over the next few months, she occupies the majority of her time trying to improve it further. The goal is to one day surpass the efficiency of even her father's core -- which is tasked with simultaneously energizing the suit and repelling the shards of metal encroaching on his heart. Pulling double duty ought to make it less effective.

This should be cake, but time isn't on her side. 

He's had a fifteen year head start, but within the first fifteen days she improves response time by 200% across all systems. With enough time, she should easily surpass him.

But she won't have the time.

Beca's luck is sporadic at best, and fifteen turns out to be a not so lucky number.


	2. no user serviceable parts inside

She hears the click before anything else. It thrums in time with her heart beating.

That's the sound of a spark. It's ignition. That's wires firing, pulsing, and an impulse that's a half a heartbeat too late. 

She knows to duck. Every instinct inside is screaming to fall to the ground with hands above her head. 

Well, _almost_ every instinct.

Because there's still that one -- the one that says fly higher, dive faster, just fucking _go, go, go_ \-- and that's the one that's keeping time with her intentions, sending signals through her brain.

Just before the bomb goes off.

*

But that isn't how this starts. This isn't the beginning.

*

She's twelve, and the footage of her father's mistake keeps playing on a loop. It's on TV and on the web.

It's the static background of her life, the soundtrack of disaster.

*

Her father's work from nearly thirty years ago isn't finished.

Some of the bombs remain undetonated, waiting for a small child to stumble across them while exploring -- battling imaginary dragons, or whatever normal kids do. (Beca's pretty sure they don't play at solving theorems or experiment with the density of random objects. Just a hunch.) She thinks the Barton twins might have played at target practice and kick boxing, which probably isn't really standard either.

Okay, Beca doesn't really _get_ how childhood is supposed to go; that doesn't mean some poor kid deserves to have his (or her) arms blown off.

So she starts volunteering with relief organizations tasked exclusively with dismantling Stark ammunitions. At first, she only provides funds funneled through a bank account created for her in secret by Natasha.

(Beca is twelve and makes the excuse of being curious about buying pornography online without her mother finding out. Natasha's the kind of mother who encourages female self-actualization and exploration -- or whatever -- so it seems viable. However, this turns out to be a _terrible_ alibi once Natasha responds with some remark about Beca's mom _still being such a prude_ , which raises all sorts of questions about her parents and their friends that Beca would prefer to have _never_ had cross her mind.)

She does all this behind her mom and dad's back, of course, since she might otherwise be expected to answer really awkward questions about how she _feels_ about the former family business. Uncomfortable family meetings aren't really Beca's thing. (Not that sex talk with cool aunt Natasha is _her thing_ either.)

At the end of the day, it seems to be worth it. The money (donated anonymously) is put to good use.

It feels kind of good (nearly great) to do good for so many others.

*

The suit is a start, but only just.

For one thing, her dad never lets her put it to full use.

"Flying, no falling," he says, like that's not obvious. Maybe to him it wasn't. "No fires, unless it's an _emergency_."

Of course it's _always_ an emergency. Fire trucks don't tend to rush to the scene of cats in trees, you know? So she follows the sound of sirens.

Beca flies to the top floor and carries out its screaming occupants. Sometimes she _does_ even save a cat, too.

It's nice. There are never cameras on the scene of a tragedy as it's happening. (Those always come after, along with the ambulances and lawyers.) It's almost strange to have something that's not about the message. That just _is_.

But over time, even that's not enough.

*

The plan is simple, because complexity can be miscalculated. The only complication here is who Beca _is_ (the Stark family name) and she has Chloe's collection of fake IDs for that.

The first time it goes off without a hitch. Beca tells her parents she's staying with the Bartons and never bothers to find out if they make a phone call asking after her. She's never questioned, and mom doesn't seem suspicious.

She becomes bold and goes again, less than a month later.

*

Beca goes to the site of the battles long since ended to help dispose of the bombs and their casings. Sins of the father -- that sort of thing.

She uses an assumed name to avoid confrontation, and maybe that's all it will take. Beca's actually spent so much of her life trying to avoid the cameras that follow her family around that she isn't always recognized -- not right away. She wears a plain t-shirt and jeans with sunglasses -- casual and unassuming -- and tries to project the same innocent calm she knows Chloe or her mother would carry in a similar situation.

Mostly, it seems to work.

Until day two.

Some guy she hasn't spoken to the entire time she's been here is watching her. He's staring outright, and if she didn't know better she'd say he notices her looking back from behind her aviators.

But it's not possible. Right?

Except Impossible is walking over to her now, standing a good foot taller, and frowning. "You think this makes it okay?"

Beca's face starts out impassive, almost unconcerned, but she works to recall how Chloe might smile to pacify and tries to mirror it. 

(Her own smile is about half as sincere, maybe a third as convincing.) 

"Sorry?" she says, mouth already starting to ache.

"You think this makes up for the blood money you buy your fancy cars with?" Well okay, so he definitely recognizes her. 

The smile fades into something closer to a smirk, way more natural. "I'm fifteen. I don't _have_ a car."

"Your dad?" he says, drawing closer. "Is a war criminal."

Beca is about to answer him, smile genuinely starting to grow, but then --

But.

Then.

*

Maybe this guy is an angel or something, because if he hadn't come over Beca might not have been on her guard. She might not have been fully alert -- because hey, even _brilliant_ teenagers kind of zone out -- and so maybe she wouldn't have heard it.

But there it is. There's the click.

And before the instinct for self-preservation even starts to kick in, there's that other one. The one that says fly into a burning building or dive to the bottom of the sea.

The one that says throw yourself at a guy twice your size without saying a word, try to tackle him to the ground. Try to shield his body with your (small, frail, pathetic) little self --

But it doesn't work. He's surprised at first, swaying off-guard, but he _is_ bigger (stronger), and he pushes her back (shoving roughly), and Beca only gets as far as, "Bo--" before they're both sent flying.

*

The whole world shudders and bends under the impact.

Her dad is really fucking good at what he does. (Did.)

died.

*

She's pulled back out of the blackness by a sharp ringing, not just in her ears but everywhere. Even the flaming (stinging, burning, dying) nerve endings all along her left side are humming, ringing, _screaming_.

She'll _never_ forget the sounds. More than the way blood looks drying on sand or how she doesn't even have words for that panicked look in Steve's eyes, Beca remembers the sounds.

Someone was screaming (maybe it was her?), and her ears were ringing but she could still hear her father's voice. 

Rising, getting higher and hotter and the warm stinging feeling on her cheek is probably blood right or maybe tears, but Tony is shouting, saying, " _Beca,_ " and then, "Bruce, _hurry._ " 

Natasha's hand in Beca's hair, and it comes away as red as her own --

But the _sound_ of the rocks slipping under foot as they scramble, slip, and squelch through what might be someone else's entrails.

Oh god.

*

But it's not the end.

She doesn't get to give up yet.

*

Because she's fine.

She knows because everyone won't stop saying it.

"You're fine," her mother's voice is saying, hand warm on Beca's cold forehead. "You're going to be okay."

*

Beca wakes up to a white room so bright it's like the walls are made of fucking _light_ \-- and hey, it's her dad right, so who really knows -- and her throat feels like she's swallowed a cat, it's so dry.

Two cats. Three.

Four very _pissed off_ cats, and hey these drugs are _really doing their thing_ , seems like.

"You're going to be okay," says Dr. Banner. His voice is low, almost a whisper. Like he's afraid that even the pressure of sound might be enough to break Beca now. His fingers fumble and twist, a nervous habit.

"Can--"

His fingers twist again, and Beca realizes he's pumping morphine directly into her blood stream.

_She's fine._

*

"You look great, kiddo," Tony says.

Even making a face hurts, but it's _really necessary_ , so Beca _does_. 

"Well, okay fine." He has this way of smiling that's more like the grimace that normally looks at home on Beca's face too. "As good as it's going to get. You've got more of my DNA than your mom's in that department, unfortunately."

"Wow," she croaks, already feeling exhausted. "Thanks."

He pulls a chair up alongside the bed and frowns to keep from trying on another fake smile that neither of them will be convinced by. The honesty is reassuring. "Hey," he says, resting his hand on the bedside, fingers grazing across Beca's pulse. "What else am I here for?"

Neither of them talk about the blue glow pulsing from Beca's chest -- higher than her dad's (and smaller), almost directly over the heart -- and that's probably for the best.

But, _that._

Obviously, he's here for that.

*

Beca doesn't need to ask if she'd be dead without the help of her dad and Bruce. The (very short) list of survivors makes that pretty obvious. Thirty-six dead. Three survivors.

It's considered good numbers for a blast that size. _"Acceptable loses,"_ one report says. _"Incredibly dangerous volunteer work."_

The non-profit is being investigated for allowing a fifteen year old to slip through with a fake ID. Someone not even related to Beca is threatening to sue -- suggesting maybe that the Starks might have even had something to _do_ with the detonation -- and there's a good chance the organization will fold.

She's not supposed to know these things. Nobody will tell her the news, but they don't take her phone away. They have to _know_ that she's reading it online. (The scathing reports on her parents -- those monsters who let their own child wander into harm's way -- and indictments of The Avengers for prioritizing one of their own over mass casualties.) They _must_ know, because they don't always meet her gaze when she asks how things are going.

Eventually, she stops asking.

Sometimes it's just easier to twist her fingers too, let the white light do the rest.

*

She's _really fucking high_ on pain meds when a doctor comes into her room asking a lot of questions about her progress and making comparisons to her father's injuries.

"Is it--" He points at the white glow, and his face lights up as if the arc reactor were shining on it directly. He's _that_ happy. "Will it be permanent?"

Maybe it's the medication, but a wave of nausea hits Beca _hard_.

She's still blinking the sleep from her eyes, trying to find an answer, when the whole Barton clan shows up. Jesse is pissed -- more furious than he's _ever_ been at Beca, even -- and it takes her a few confused minutes (filled with shoving, swearing, and threats of lawsuits) to realize that the guy was just a reporter in a white coat.

_Was_ because he's been unceremoniously tossed from the room -- and Clint is following him down the hall, shouting something about "basic human decency, you fuckhead."

Beca should have known. Her only visitors since waking up have been all the people she knows. 

Well - 

Most of them. This is the first time for all the Bartons.

"Hey," she mumbles, pulling the blanket up higher until the blue-white light of science is muted to only a faint glow through the sheets. Beca's eyes drift from Chloe to Jesse (whose jaw still twitches in a rage that she finds oddly endearing), and her smile comes easy now. "Where have you two assholes been?"

"I could kill you," is all Chloe says.

"There's a line. Mom's at the front."

*

She receives visits over the next few weeks from everyone she cares about, though the pieces become hard to pull apart later. The moments string together in Beca's head, held there by the tacky stickiness of a brain half-clouded by _really_ good drugs.

But it's almost nicer this way.

In Beca's memory, everyone is there together. She almost manages to completely erase the anger -- the way her dad won't stay in one room with Natasha anymore, and nobody will tell Beca _why_ \-- and the hurt. Like how the room falls silent when her mom is there, a hand hovering over her mouth and tears shining in her eyes. 

It might break Beca's heart if it weren't already damaged beyond fucking repair. 

But in her memory, it all comes easier than it ever has before. Her dad ruffles her hair while Clint tells a story about his cab ride over and the woman who tried to crawl into the backseat with him. ( _"She said I was a birthday present for her niece."_ )

Mr. Banner changes her bandages, and talks to her in his tired, quiet voice, saying, "We were all worried. Even Natasha." 

" _Especially_ Natasha," Beca says, a million dirty jokes she's made while trying to flirt -- just to make the twins cringe and squirm -- popping up inside her head, but she doesn't want to make _Bruce_ blush. (It's probably not nearly as fun as when Chloe or Jesse do it.)

The twins play cards at her bedside, and Aubrey clucks her tongue. "You're not _gambling_ , are you?" But she leans over Chloe's shoulder anyway, and whispers advice in her ear. 

Jesse flicks a card at Chloe's face and it hits dead on, right between her eyes. "Cheaters!"

*

The memory of those weeks she holds onto now is probably nothing like what really happened.

Probably the room was empty most of the time, and Beca was alone with her drugs and her dreams. Everyone else has a life and that doesn't stop just because Beca nearly ended her own.

It's more likely that there were awkward silences and general discomfort from a group of people that hate hospitals and have lived so much of their lives walking side-by-side with death. 

Probably.

But she doesn't need to know for sure. Doesn't _want_ to, even. 

If they're going to keep so many things from her -- footage of children's bodies caught up in the blast, the shouting and heartache, and paparazzi photos of mom crying in the lobby -- then she _isn't_ going to ask about this either. 

At least this lie she can tell herself.

Beca can be convincing when she wants to be.

*

"Absolutely not." Tony looks more tired than Beca ever remembers seeing him before. "It's out of the question."

"I'm not actually asking for your advice on this one, dad." 

This would probably be a lot more convincing if Beca weren't still bedridden. 

"I'm too fragile," she says, sweeping her arm in indication of the IVs, the bed, the everything. " _Obviously_. I've got to adapt, and the technology is there."

"The _technology_ isn't for fifteen year old girls--"

"So this is a _girl_ thing."

But that's apparently the wrong tactic, since now he just looks pissed. "It's a _child_ who runs off and gets a hole blasted into her chest because she was in a bad mood _thing_."

"'Bad mood'? Seriously?" It's okay, they can both do pissed off and indignant together. "You made it possible for psychopaths to murder innocent people _for a living_ , and I'm getting lectured on decision making? Are you serious?"

"Twenty-six _years_ ago, Beca--"

"Yeah! And _you_ were an adult at the time, so obviously age doesn't play a factor in smarts." 

"Obviously neither does genetics."

Which, okay. That one hurt a little (okay, a fucking _lot_ ), and apparently Tony even regrets it enough to stall right after he's said it. So maybe this is her chance to spring into action or whatever, just clear that lump out of her throat first. "Yeah, well. All the more reason I need reinforcement."

"Beca--"

"No, you know what." Beca clears her throat again, but that _sound_ won't quite clear up. (The one that's a little wet and pathetically desperate, and fuck won't he _just go_ , does he _need_ to make her keep talking?) "I think I'm tired."

You could probably call the look Beca levels at her dad something like a glare. Like if she had her way and could slap whatever tech she wants into her body, maybe she'd be drilling an _actual_ hole into him with a laser beam, but for now the stink eye will have to do.

"… right," is all Tony says, and it's honestly more than she needs (or wants) from him right now.

Beca frowns and watches the patterns of shadows cast through the blinds onto the bedsheet. She doesn't look up again until he's gone.

*

It's another three days of Beca studying stolen plans from Stark Industries -- essentially window shopping on her phone -- before her dad pops in to say that he'll agree to help her, but only on one condition: "Don't tell your mother."

"Duh."

*

The basic idea is just to upgrade. If Tony plans to make advancements on the metal plate hovering over her heart -- which, apparently he _does_ , with no input from Beca -- then it only seems fair that Beca should get to slot a few other additions into the basic hardware.

Like being short probably doesn't suck as much if you don't have to jog sometimes to keep up with your friends out walking (or to get away from the paparazzi), and it only takes a few modifications to your joints to make that happen.

Or you break four ribs in an explosion and you kind of resolve to _never do that again_ , so Beca takes it upon herself to reinforce her various weak points. The idea is to not _have_ any more weak points.

Well, not _many_.

Whenever her dad starts to balk or hesitate, Beca need only remind him of the Stark-stamped metal already embedded inside as an apparently permanent addition, and how she'd really like to have "just a little autonomy, dad."

"You need to stop talking to Natasha," he says, but then he gets back to work.

*

And maybe he means it too -- the thing about Natasha.

They still barely speak to each other, and Beca's only recently worked out the reason why.

Because apparently Natasha (super spy and all) had been tracking the movements of funds in and out of the account she created for Beca and knew of her exact location the moment of the blast. Beca's dad sees this as some kind of massive breach of friendship or whatever, but Beca's pretty sure assembling the team in under two minutes should count for _something_ in Natasha's favor. The Bartons are the _only family friends_ that Beca even remotely _likes_ \-- and really some of the only ones who aren't friends with her dad primarily because of money or drinking -- and she'd really rather they not be taken off the Christmas list.

Whatever. Natasha still (reluctantly) answers Beca's texts after enough repeated harassment, so things are fine.

Beca is fine.

Even better: she's upgrading.

*

(She does the math and determines that even with the metal parts of her heart, she'll still remain 84% organic.

That's definitely more human than not.)

*

"I'm not sure I see what the _point_ is," her dad says one day in the lab.

It's not really the same as it was when they first built her suit. The hours are much shorter -- they can't have mom walking in, asking questions -- and the silences are way more intense and fully _loaded_. 

But when they speak at all, it's somehow worse.

Beca sighs. "The point of--?"

"These improvements."

"So that it doesn't happen again," she says automatically, sneaking peeks at adaptive optical technology that there is _literally no way_ her dad will let her test out; "you know, the next time."

"The next-- _Hold_ on." Tony actually _throws_ whatever he was holding -- he's seriously a bit of a drama queen, holy shit -- and Beca _really_ hopes whatever it was isn't something that's meant to go inside her because it just clattered onto a floor that she knows hasn't been washed in like a day. 

But that's probably beside the point, because he's rounded on his heel and is giving her this intense _look_ that says Beca Stark is in for possibly the lecture of her life.

" _Excuse_ me? You nearly die in an explosion and you think I'm ever letting you put that suit on again? _Now_ or twenty _years_ from now or _ever_?" He laughs, but it doesn't actually sound amused. It's more the kind of laugh he reserves for taunting Colonel Fury or making Steve think there's some fantastic joke that he's not in on. 

It's not a _nice_ laugh, is the point. 

"Dammit, Beca. I might not win father of the year, but what kind of _moron_ would let a kid like you up in the air again after--" His face distorts in a _spasm_ of what is apparently a lot of pent up frustration. "You are a smart kid. _Please_ don't act like such an idiot."

Tony Stark conducts arguments like other men demolish buildings -- or really anything at all. 

He likes to _overwhelm_ , and Beca has learned to mostly ride it out. "Are you done?"

"I've barely _started_."

"From a distance, they think I'm you," she says abruptly, cutting through all the bullshit, and at least he looks a little taken aback. Less incensed and maybe even surprised. That _might_ be good, since not a lot surprises Tony. "That I'm a hero."

"Is that why you're doing this?" He sounds so disappointed in her, like she just announced a belief in Santa Claus. "To be thought _well_ of?" Or a desire to convert to Christianity.

"Does it matter?"

"It matters, yes." His voice is rising, which he seldom intends. He prefers direct derision and undermining a point of view -- pulling out its foundation -- over shouting it down. "It matters very much, and if you can't understand that I think it's _proof_ you shouldn't be doing it."

That doesn't keep him from going with that approach when need be, and apparently he thinks now is one of those times when he ought to loom over Beca, trying to stare her down.

Another big plus about the iron suit is the height factor. Without it, she has to fake it, crossing her arms and staring right back at him. "You'll accept _anything_ as proof I shouldn't be doing something you don't _want_ me to do." She sneers. "That's not empirical evidence, dad." 

"No parent wants this for his child."

"Well, that's too bad," Beca snaps back, and now she's starting to feel angry too. Angry and honest. "This is who you are. This is the DNA you gave me. I'm ineffective at _everything_ but this. _You_ don't get to take it away."

*

If Tony's arguments are like taking a hammer to a brick wall, then maybe Beca's a stick of dynamite.

Or just a really pissed off teenage girl who's tired of feeling too small and helpless. Maybe just fucking that.

* 

Her dad doesn't really have any answers for her -- like, _big_ surprise there -- and he does the avoidance thing for the next few days before suddenly appearing in the lab at midday (when mom is _definitely_ at work and he probably should be too) with a modified version of Beca's suit.

One that will lock in place with the arc reactor humming above her heart.

"Dad," she starts to say, but he waves her off, which is probably for the best. Neither of them is good at talking about things that actually mean anything.

But the suit -- 

That means a lot.

And the smile exchanged between them says they both know it. 

It's nice. It's almost great.

*

But really not even half as great as her take off five minutes later (or landing twenty-six minutes after that), and all the unnecessary spirals and loops in between that probably have her dad _really_ second guessing his decision making.

Which would be why Beca flies downtown to see the Bartons rather than returning immediately home.

"Christ!" Jesse laughs as he strolls out onto the fire escape, a few feet away from where Beca is hovering.

"No," she says through the mask. "Just me." She lifts up a couple feet more and adds, "But I can walk on water, so I understand the confusion."

"Someone's feeling a lot better."

"Yeah, I kind of have that effect on people." Beca _lands_ with a sudden jolt that shakes the railing and has Jesse grabbing hold of the stairs leading up. "Oh, did you mean me?"

"Careful," he says, apparently ignoring her and looking really _literally_ shaken up. "I'm not sure how well this pre-war rust really holds up under-- _excuse_ me?"

Because apparently he thinks Beca ducking in through their window is _rude_ or something. "Yeah?" Beca peels off the helmet (the better to blink at him in confusion), and turns. "… you can come inside too."

Everyone is pretty pleased to see her, and _she's_ really glad to see all of them without them having two heads or any other weird side effects of the medication. (At least Beca hopes it was all the medication, or she and Chloe are going to have to have some serious conversations.) 

It's nice.

When Tony calls (for the third time), Clint answers the phone with, "You know this is the emergency number, right?" Beca's not sure if that's true, but it makes both the twins snicker, so probably not. 

When he hands the phone over, Beca asks to be allowed to stay for dinner. Chloe looks pleased and Jesse makes a big show of rolling his eyes, but smiles too. Neither stare too long at the light that still glows through a thermal layer and a t-shirt. 

It's so close to what a normal teenager (probably) might do that for a moment Beca can't help but think that having a hole punched into her chest might just be the best thing for her chances at normalcy yet.

Maybe being nearly one fifth bionic will make her a little more human.


	3. refer servicing to qualified service personnel

"Beca!" 

It's her father's voice coming from the upstairs bathroom, so Beca's pretty sure she knows what the shouting's about even without elaboration. "Think I'm still me, yeah," she calls back. "At least until four."

Weirdly, he doesn't sound amused. 

Or _look_ it either when he pops his head out around the bannister to glare down the stairs. "How is it that your mother can go eighteen years without leaving a mess in the bathroom, you can't go eighteen minutes?" He gets _really_ pissy about makeup in the sink, apparently.

"I don't know, dad. How can I clean the suit in the living room without leaving oil stains on the carpet?" Beca's sprawled against the sofa, feet kicked up on the corner of the coffee table. Mom's not home, and dad only cares about the marble finish in the bathroom where he grooms himself, not the place where _guests_ might sit. It's not nearly as rebellious an act as she might prefer, but a person learns to make due with slouching and sneers when necessary. "Some of us have specific skill sets."

He can be as annoyed as he likes. Whatever. 

Beca slipped out of her bedroom early that morning (well, early for _her_ ) and chose dad's bathroom down the hall instead of the adjoining one to keep from waking Chloe, who _never_ gets the chance to sleep in at home. It's sort of rule #1 of slumber parties, even if it's largely unspoken.

Well okay, strictly speaking it's probably rule #2 at this point, pushed aside by the incredibly important assumption that every sleepover since Beca turned eleven (and Chloe thirteen) must be held at Beca's house. Otherwise they run the risk of Jesse crashing, and apparently that's _really awkward_ for Chloe.

It makes sense. Beca's pretty sure she would _hate_ having a brother, even one as cool as Jesse. (Well, relatively cool, on a scale from like worst to slightly tolerable.)

"Oh, _really_." She can hear her dad, still at the top of the stairs, gearing up for a lecture. He's surveying his target, readying the first shot, but then: "Good morning, Chloe. Sorry, did I wake you?"

No dad, the shouting is totally restful and low-key.

But Chloe's just _too_ nice, and Beca can practically hear the smile in her voice when she says, "No worries, Mr. Stark. I was already awake." Probably not true, but she's always been the better liar of the two younger Bartons, so it goes unchallenged.

*

"What happens at four?"

Beca raises her eyebrows at Chloe, who has settled in comfortably at her side. "Spying much?"

" _Shouting_ much?" Apparently Chloe's chosen the spare inches of space Beca left between herself and the arm of the sofa instead of the several feet of open cushions to the other side of her. All the better to be _right_ in Beca's face apparently when Chloe turns her head and whispers, "You're not doing anything _stupid_ , are you?"

"Well," Beca whispers back. " _Aubrey_ is coming over. So you tell me."

Chloe does grin, but her voice holds a very specific kind of amusement that's _way_ more pointed than her soft expression would suggest. "Oh, wow. You _are_ feeling better."

Beca rolls her eyes. "Shut up."

Not that shutting up is really a thing that super spies (or their offspring) are inclined to do, so Beca's pretty surprised when Chloe lets it go at that.

*

Except that Chloe doesn't just let it go at that, apparently.

It's two hours into their afternoon with Aubrey when Chloe corners Beca in some diner downtown that they ducked inside to get away from the paparazzi for a little while. Aubrey's ordering milkshakes for all of them, and Beca was _about_ to object that she doesn't really want any, thanks, but now Chloe's backing her up into the wall and there appear to be more pressing concerns.

"So, when do you tell me what's really going on?"

"I… am so confused right now." Beca takes a step back, and Chloe follows. 

"Don't get me wrong," Chloe says, speaking slowly (carefully), which is probably a _really_ bad sign -- or at least suspicious as fuck. "I really appreciate you and Aubrey trying to get along." Then she just _stares_ at Beca, like that's it, that's all, and now an explanation is required. 

When one isn't exactly forthcoming, she adds, "But what the hell is _really_ going on?" 

There are a billion lies that spring to mind, but Chloe would see through at least half of them immediately. The rest within the hour.

And Beca honestly doesn't _want_ to lie to Chloe if she doesn't have to, so she settles for a reluctant mumble instead. Consider it a compromise. "I just think we should all try to get along." She grunts and crosses her arms defensively. "That's _all_."

"We?"

" _You_ know." Beca rolls her eyes. "Special kids of super heroes."

"… oh." Chloe just laughs. " _Oh_." 

And it's the kind of _oh_ like maybe she understands _all_ of it -- the real motivations behind Beca's every action -- and this is probably why Beca _should_ want to lie to Chloe more than with anyone else. She's already so transparent in front of her. 

The image can't be kept under Beca's control when Chloe sees so easily past the surface.

But it's really kind of nice how Chloe just _gets_ it -- gets her -- because while it well may be there's no such thing as destiny, the reality isn't so simple. You aren't necessarily _meant_ to do or be something, sure, but circumstances certainly tend to lead to _probability_. Not everybody takes up the family business, but there's an undefinable something that comes from growing up in the shadow of a suit. You're born hyperaware of your own potential and all the ways that you fall short. This is something they all share (even Beca and Aubrey), whether they want to admit to it or not.

So Beca Stark, Aubrey Rogers, and Chloe and Jesse Barton might not want or need to be friends and allies, but the odds were always good; and if it's going to happen anyway, then maybe Beca doesn't want a Rogers ending up as de facto leader just because of a military background. Maybe she'd rather cultivate a few friendships and prove her mettle (no pun intended). Because as much as she works to dodge the limelight, Beca still enjoys being at the center of the axis on which Jesse and Chloe both pivot.

And maybe Chloe knows it.

"Dad's made me promise not to leave the country without an _escort,_ " Beca says in her best conspiratorial whisper. "But he never actually said they had to be thirty-year-old security dudes." She smirks at Chloe.

Who doesn't really smirk back. In fact, she might even look a little _too_ serious, saying, "I don't know what gave you the impression I would _let_ you leave the country without me."

"Uh—"

"Not again, Beca."

"… okay." 

Chloe just nods, like they've reached some kind of understanding; and maybe they have, because she never asks again about Beca's efforts to befriend Aubrey.

Which are largely all failures, by the way.

*

Because Aubrey is impossible to please.

She doesn't like when Beca dives in front of gunfire to protect her, because apparently her shield "would have been sufficient," and especially, " _Stop_ showing off for your fanclub." 

Beca isn't actually sure what she means until an especially pointed glance sent at both the twins leaves her kind of wanting to blush. It's really ( _ridiculously_ ) untrue, but she could see how someone might make that mistake. 

Especially if they were a hard-headed idiot like Aubrey Rogers, storming into danger and somehow defaulting to a position of leadership just by being louder, pushier. Like they all _have_ to listen to her if she shouts.

Except it _works_ , because she _doesn't stop_ until she gets her way, and Chloe almost acts like it's admirable. Like apparently leadership was actually always about who pushes hardest.

And maybe it is. Like if it's largely all about the flash and volume, then maybe Aubrey and Beca's dad really have a lot in common. There's a showmanship and sense of style to that smile that Beca's _pretty sure_ is made up of capped teeth. No way it's all natural.

Aubrey smiles for the paparazzi and poses with fans. She actually really _likes_ when people ask for autographs, which is the kind of thing that mostly makes Beca's skin crawl.

*

"Um," a little girl is saying, holding up her camera.

"Do you want a picture?" Aubrey asks in the kind of voice people usually reserve only for small children and those they suspect are hard of hearing.

" _Yes_." But the girl shoves the camera into Aubrey's hand while taking hold of Beca's shirt at the same time, dragging her into the frame. "With my hero!" 

This is _not_ doing Beca any favors with Aubrey, and Jesse's laughter isn't really helping either.

"Say _cheese_ ," Aubrey orders, looking a bit like she's actually imagining carving Beca into thin slices and serving her up on a ham sandwich. Over Aubrey's shoulder, Chloe puts on a valiant smile, like maybe she's hoping Beca might be able to match it just through proximity. 

She _does_ put in the effort, but it's probably not nearly enough, all crooked and insincere. Poor kid.

*

Nearly twenty minutes later, Jesse still bursts into amused, high-pitched giggles, and they only falter after a carefully aimed glare from Aubrey.

Probably a really good thing that _she_ doesn't have any direct access to laser technology, honestly.

*

Like with his shitty lies and giggle fits, Jesse is not good at coping with impulse. He's just not steady on the fly, which makes for some interesting super hero work in general.

That's why it really shouldn't be a surprise for Beca when he kisses her.

"Hey Beca," he says. "I need to try something."

And then he's kissing her.

*

They're on a flight back from a mission in Europe -- Beca even makes a joke about swinging by Russia -- and then suddenly Jesse is shoving her against the rack where they keep the parachutes and his tongue's inside her mouth.

It feels -- 

Different.

Not _bad_ exactly, but not as awesome as flying or shooting lasers out of her palm. The kid unfortunately has a _lot_ to live up to. 

But as with any experiment, Beca wants to allow this time to be processed fully. So when Jesse starts to pull away, she grabs him back again, fisting her hand in his shirt and _pulling_ until he's closer to her level. Then she _shoves_ instead, seating him abruptly -- and kind of hard, by the sound of it -- on the bench against the wall. She straddles him, and -- 

His hand is on the arc reactor, and Beca _gasps_ while jerking away.

It doesn't hurt, not exactly, but _nobody_ has touched the reactor directly except for Beca or her dad. 

(Not even her mom, who still cries sometimes when she catches a glimpse of the hole in her daughter's chest where the glowing light resides. She always turns away quickly, like she thinks Beca won't see the tears streaking down her face. As if it's the kind of thing she can hide in a quiet laugh and some random joke, but of _course_ Beca sees. Of course she knows.) 

Maybe it's a weirdly sentimental thought for someone to have -- especially someone like Beca Stark, who isn't inclined toward this kind of intensity in general -- but it feels a lot like having a hand directly on top of her heart. Like a finger thrumming right against a raw nerve, leaving a thumbprint over her pulse. 

It's only then that Beca remembers they're not alone, and Chloe is staring at her with a weird look in her eyes. 

"Sorry," Jesse says, flushed and almost ashamed, with his mouth still hanging open.

Beca folds her arms across her chest, blocking the glowing light partially from view, and nods. "Sure," she says. "Yeah."

So, that's _really_ awkward.

*

It's sort of better the next time, maybe because they're not nearly forty thousand feet in the air, or maybe just because his sister isn't watching.

They're sparring in the Bartons' gym, which is usually a Beca and Chloe thing, but today Jesse volunteered. He's really half-assing the whole thing, though, taking mild swipes and dodging more than he tries to hit at all.

It's really starting to piss her off. "You don't have to _baby_ me, jackass," Beca grunts, landing a hard hit on his jaw. She's certainly reinforced herself enough to be able to go a few rounds with Jesse Barton (of all fucking people) and still get out of bed the next day. It'd be sort of embarrassing otherwise.

"I'm--" He grunts at the next sequence of hits peppered across his abdomen. Left, left, right. "-- _being_ \--" Right, left. "--a _gentleman._ "

Just for that, Beca hits him in the face again. She laughs, but it comes out sort of breathless and half a pant. "Or a dumbass." 

But oh, apparently _that_ did it. Because it's like a switch going off at the back of Jesse's brain. He suddenly furrows his brows down like a caveman and _lunges_ , actually fucking shouting, "Sweep the leg!" as he (obviously) sweeps his leg -- which is _completely_ a move he stole from his mom, by the way -- and now Beca is on her back, grimacing at the ceiling. 

It would probably hurt a whole hell of a lot more without the plating on her spine, but it still hurts plenty overall. "Jesus," she grunts, trying to remember how to breathe without wanting to puke.

"No," he says from directly above her, peeling off his gloves. "Just Jesse." 

When he falls to his knees, it's sort of graceful in a weird way that hints at his genetic lineage way more than any shared facial features ever have. Maybe Jesse's bendy too -- a thought which had really never occurred to her before -- because right now he's almost boneless crouching over her with his legs to either side of her pelvis, hovering a few inches above and smirking like a really _smug_ asshole. 

"… this isn't a good angle for you," Beca scowls.

"It's an okay one for _you._ "

"Mm, really?"

"I'm going to try something," he says, all in a rush, and Beca _almost_ suspects --

She nearly _starts_ to object (maybe), saying, "Don't be an idi--" 

But Jesse's kiss is nearly gentle this time, almost smooth, and she's already a little breathless anyway. It feels _exhausting_ to think of objecting again, so she presses up instead, taking control. She pulls at his shirt close to where his elbow hooks down to rest against the mat, and she bites his lip experimentally until he hisses, mouth slowly starting to slip into a frown.

"Beca," he mumbles, pulling away just far enough to get the words out. "That kind of--"

" _Don't_ be an idiot," she says again, even more earnest than before, and forces their mouths back together. 

It's kind of nice (maybe), and when she gets bored, she punches him (lightly) in the chest until he pulls back. That's pretty nice, too. Convenient, even.

"Come on," Beca says, slipping out from under him -- because they're not the _only_ ones who can bend and maneuver, after all -- and now she's halfway out the door before she notices Jesse's still on his knees and blinking, stunned. Beca looks back and frowns, barely disguising her impatience.

If he's going to be this slow to recover every time, she might have to rethink being okay with this whole kissing thing. "… dinner, right?"

"Uh." Jesse licks his lips and nods. "Right."

She _really_ might have to rethink.

*

Sparring with Chloe a few days later is more productive overall. They're both unrelenting and kind of hardheaded. Beca gets it from her dad, and Chloe from the natural competitiveness that comes from growing up side-by-side with someone -- always wondering how far away the line is where you'll find their limit.

So when Chloe hits her _hard_ , Beca takes one staggering step back but still grins. Maybe in the days before the accident, she would have been winded and wincing, but she's genuinely better now. Stronger.

A truly _better_ Beca Stark.

Now when Chloe moves in close and goes in low, hammering away with a quick one-two, Beca can _collapse_ into the contact, pressing forward until Chloe is almost out of step and off-balance. She _ducks_ and dodges, taking advantage of her size, and literally _presses_ until Chloe's swaying.

" _Pushy._ "

"And pushee," Beca laughs, leaning a little more until Chloe's shifted out of a fighting stance and is _grappling_ at Beca's shoulders to hold her balance. 

Which, given Beca's size, maybe isn't such an ideal strategy. 

"Fuck!" They land in a pile, with Beca on top and Chloe glowering from below. She looks more frustrated than genuinely annoyed, mumbling something only half-audible about cheap shots.

"Sorry, what?" Beca raises up, looking smug. "I can't hear you over the sounds of sore loser." 

"I said I'm pretty sure that _terrorists_ won't be beaten by you swaying into them."

But Beca just laughs again. "A _really_ sore loser. Wow." She braces her hands on Chloe's hips and straddles, trying to spread out her weight. Not that she's exactly likely to crush _anyone_. "Did you bruise something other than ego?"

Chloe rolls her eyes, but smiles anyway. "I'll bruise _you_ in a minute."

"You really should try. I'm _fast_." 

"Is that…" Chloe gasps, and then so does Beca when the _body_ underneath her starts shifting.

"Chlo--"

"--a _dare_?"

Hips thrust, and Beca is almost unseated. " _Chloe_."

"Because it _sounds_ like--"

"Chl--"

The sound Beca makes could probably _generously_ be called a yelp, maybe a squeal. It's barely human, all flailing, as she's sent unceremoniously end over end (almost landing on her head) and suddenly their positions are reversed.

Which, when you think about all the years Chloe's spent studying with her mother -- not to mention the added benefit of genetics -- is _basically_ cheating. Not that Chloe would probably care much about the accusation. Winning at any cost is rooted far deeper in the Romanova bloodline than fair play or a concern for appearances. 

Like now when Chloe grins, and it's _very_ predatory.

Beca would snort if she didn't think she might need to conserve the oxygen. "You win, okay?" she mumbles, grunting once. "Now move?"

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Chloe giggles. "One more time?" 

"You _win_."

"Always," Chloe whispers from _very_ close -- like exhaling and Beca's hair moves against her throat close -- and leaves a kiss on Beca's cheek, offering a hand when she stands. Their fingers flex when they clasp together, just before Beca is drawn in close to Chloe's side in a casual, friendly embrace -- arms slung across each other's shoulders. 

"Good thing you're so modest."

Chloe laughs, and it's an even lighter sound than before. " _Always_."

*

The blogs and sleazy tabloids were always a pain in an ass, but since the accident they've only gotten worse. Word gets out that Tony Stark is making improvements to his daughter's heart, and _all_ the media have a field day.

Beca Stark, the ice queen with the damaged heart. Tin girl with a hole in her chest. The metal monster and a thousand shitty allegories about Icarus. For once she can't control the message; it's gotten too far out of her grasp, and it just keeps spinning wider.

 _"What I don't understand,"_ one blogger writes; _"is why she hasn't come out of daddy's giant walk-in closet yet."_

She's either breaking Chloe Barton's heart or hooking up with Stacie Hill. 

(Who by the way is almost never even _around_ the Tower, since the Bartons have this weird _thing_ about the idea of either of their children actually joining S.H.I.E.L.D. as agents. They must have gone to the same brilliant night classes on parenting her dad took.) 

One photo of her holding hands with Jesse pops up, and she's definitely straight again, possibly pregnant with his kid. Reporters flock to the Bartons' place in the village to harass and cajole. They shout obscene things at Chloe, and try to persuade Jesse to talk about how Beca Stark is in bed. 

Beca _knows_ all this is happening because their shouting only gets louder when she flies in overhead.

*

"How often do those dipshits hang around your house?"

"Not all the time," Chloe says, peeking out the window. "Must be a slow news day."

"Where's a Senate scandal when you need one?" Jesse says from his place perched atop the bookshelf. He doesn't even appear to be _reading_ anything so much as dangling his legs in an unnecessarily precarious position -- which sounds kind of normal for him, actually. "Or Hollywood swingers party."

Chloe rolls her eyes, but doesn't comment.

*

The Barton household _obviously_ has a concealed emergency back door, so they use that to sneak out together and go exploring.

Dressed casually, they _almost_ blend in. Beca and Chloe's respective (diminutive) sizes help, and Jesse offers what he can by way of a hat. It's the thought that counts, you know? 

But it doesn't keep strangers from staring on the subway, which is at least better than the reporters and paparazzi shouting. 

Even so, Beca's unnerved by _how many_ eyes are on them now as they draw close to Union Square. "Don't you guys take the N all the time?"

"Yeah," Jesse nods, smirking a little. "But we're a little less high profile than you." If it's somehow unclear what he means, he nods in indication of Beca's _chest_ \-- fucking rude, frankly -- where the glow can be seen peeking out from under her tank top.

Frowning, Beca zips up her jacket and resolutely ignores the stares (and whispers) until they get off at the next stop. 

When Chloe hooks an arm through the crook in Beca's elbow, pulling her in closer, she doesn't resist but she doesn't smile about it either.

Unlike Aubrey, Beca doesn't smile for every random onlooker or photographer. 

The only real control she gets over her own image anymore is to turn the message into a loud and clearly legible: _Fuck Off_.


	4. (caution, caution, caution)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost feel I should apologize for the fluctuating estimate on the overall length of the fic. I'm (relatively) sure it will actually end at chapter six. 
> 
> I wrote it down on a piece of paper and everything.

The reason for the sparring matches every week (at _least_ once a week) since they were thirteen and the security team that requires them to check in every two hours with an ever changing series of passwords is probably really self-explanatory. 

That hasn't stopped their parents from explaining it in great, terrifyingly vivid detail since they were all _way_ too small to hear this shit.

From what Beca can tell, Chloe's had it the worst in terms of harsh realities. As the daughter of the notorious Black Widow, she's always been a vulnerable -- or say maybe just _desirable_ \-- target in need of extra training and protection. Natasha is diligent in her responsibilities to all the children, but Chloe has been learning how to defend herself against the threats of possible kidnapping -- torture, abuse, slow and painful death -- since she was five years old and first practicing aiming for the groin.

A lesson her dad and Jesse _did not_ appreciate being taught around the house, if the stories are to be believed.

*

The first attempt to kidnap Chloe comes when she's seven years old.

Or maybe it's not the first. Beca is only five, so small that she's barely aware of what's going on other than the signs of panic -- the fear and _terror_ \-- that grip even her parents. She senses it with a child's dependency on the adults around her, feels their uncertainty, and starts to cry in a way that she seldom has since turning a very mature three.

A break in at the Barton home. Three intruders, wearing masks -- dispatched by her parents, of course -- and Chloe is fine. She's safe and secure, and later Beca will learn that Natasha almost took out several of her fellow S.H.I.E.L.D. agents as well when they were reluctant to leave the premises.

 _"Not around my babies!"_ Clint will shriek in a not too convincing impersonation of his wife. In his mind, she apparently gesticulates and speaks in a higher register, chirping in dramatics that might rival even Aubrey. "Get _out_ ," he says. "Get out or I'll _KILL_ you." 

By which point Natasha has normally cut the story short with a few well placed blows to the back of his neck or knees. 

KGB officers are not the only targets she can dispatch in seconds.

*

On the rare occasions when the story reaches its conclusion, the picture is far less comical.

They came with chloroform and restraints -- a small bag to fit over Chloe's tiny head -- and enough ammunition to murder everyone else in the house. 

Even now, when the story is retold and they all laugh (even Chloe), although Beca smiles along with the rest, she can't help the constricting feeling inside her chest, or the way her hands clench as if reaching out. But for what?

Her eyes search out Chloe in the room and find her looking back. She smiles, might even wink, and for the moment the tight fear buried deep inside of Beca's stomach recedes.

But it always finds its way crawling back.

*

She's in line at a coffee shop -- not a Starbucks, somewhere smaller and more out of the way -- but they still find her here. Beca knows she's been spotted because of the very hard to miss tap on her shoulder, followed by a series of throat clearings, and (once she turns) a pointed glare.

So this isn't someone asking for an autograph then.

"Did you just… _touch_ me?" She's really long since passed the point of diplomacy or tolerance when it comes to -- well, people in general really, but _especially_ \-- invasions of her privacy or personal space. 

"Stop toying with Jesse's _heart_ ," the woman (well, girl really) says, and then hesitates, mouth hanging half-open. Beca's left with the sneaking suspicion that the girl (looks about fourteen, probably) is currently waging a war within herself over whether or not to add a _bitch_ to the end as punctuation.

"Um," Beca starts, clearing everything up for her by cutting in; "I'm sorry-- What?" Or maybe clearing up nothing at all.

But seriously. What?

"Jesse's heart is… okay." Beca blinks, slowly processing. "I mean, as far as I know." She glances back toward the counter, debating whether or not to wait for the order she already paid for. It's not an issue of the cost half so much as it's the principle. "Mine's doing fine too. Thanks for asking."

Seriously, this is all just weird and usually Beca's brain works faster than this, but she's stumped. 

"You're _using_ him." 

Oh, _that_.

Her first thought is to point out that Jesse has actually been pretty enthusiastic about all the things Beca's used him for lately -- whether punching bag or locking lips -- but something tells her that might give this girl an actual nervous breakdown. Imagine if this is her set to _calm_. "Oh, well." But the latte's done, and Beca is _out_ of here. "Nice-- well, no, kind of _awful_ meeting you, actually."

The girl probably says something in response, but Beca's headphones are on again and the whole rest of the city might as well be nestled in another dimension for all she gives a shit.

Except for cars. She'll keep an eye out for cars.

*

When Beca is sixteen and Chloe is just shy of her eighteenth birthday, they come for her again.

The bag is larger, the restraints stronger, and they bring a fucking van. 

The men know better now than to try to approach while Chloe is at home where the entire Barton family make the odds pretty uneven for just about anyone ever. 

Instead they grab her leaving the restroom at a restaurant in midtown. It's a late lunch with the usual four, with Aubrey and Jesse talking loudly about _something_ \-- probably about Beca and yet another reason she sucks so hard, or whatever -- so Beca is waiting (patiently, sort of) for Chloe to come back with eyes on the door.

She _sees_ the man make his approach, and for a moment something tingles. A sense of _wrongness_ and uncertainty kicks in Beca's gut, clawing at her insides. For just a moment, Beca could swear his eyes meet hers and he grins.

She should have known. Even years later, she can't help but blame herself. 

Because she should have fucking _known_.

Suddenly one hand plunges a needle deep into the side of Chloe's neck as the other wraps itself around her mouth, covering the sound of her scream. But it's still there in the wide vivid whites of her eyes, making Beca's heart lurch just like the rest of the room seems to pull away underneath her feet when she leaps up from her chair and sends it toppling. 

It's cramped near the center of the room -- where someone's birthday is being celebrated with cake and a song -- and even though she flips the table in her urgency, Beca can't cross to the other side before the man disappears through the emergency exit with Chloe in tow.

"Oh my fucking god," Beca pants, nearly tripping in her panic. "Oh my _fucking_ god-- Jesus-- _Jesse_." 

But he's already at her side, cell phone out to call back home. "Calm down," he says, and then louder, more urgent and insistent. "Calm _down_ , we've gotta think."

Aubrey is already outside, maybe running down the street, trying to track them on foot. Beca only knows that she's gone too -- like Chloe, who is _gone_ \-- and the panic is almost enough to choke on.

No burning building has ever felt like this. No disaster or machine gun fire. Not even an explosion -- a hole ripped through her heart -- felt like this.

 _Nothing_ has ever felt like this, and she's shoving people out of her way, desperate to get out the door and into the street where at least Beca can _scream_.

*

Chloe will be fine. She is _going_ to be fine.

But that man is going to find it pretty hard to grin ever again once Beca caves his fucking skull in.

*

Chloe always wears a tracking device, and it's linked to Jesse's phone with an app programmed by Beca. Technically, they _all_ have one and they've done a few test runs in the field in an elaborate game of hide and go seek, but not nearly enough.

Nowhere near enough to feel prepared for this, but it adds a confidence and clarity to Jesse's voice that's reassuring. "She's moving fast, must be in a car of some kind," and the calm and calculated way he reads off coordinates is soothing Beca's fragile nerves. Like this is just another test or demonstration. Just some malfunction to be solved.

Beca can do that. She's got this.

She's _fine_ and Chloe will be too.

*

The van is moving fast down Park, swerving through the traffic. Beca's best guess is he's headed for the off ramp at 42nd. Probably aiming for a runway close to one of the airpots in Queens with a tiny private plane and several other men with guns.

But she's rocketing through the sky, dipping low enough to nearly touch the top of taxis zipping past, and although it might be kind of poetic to launch the guy and his creepy sealed up van into the front of the United Nations, she isn't waiting that long.

She's taking them out right here and now.

"Grand Central," is all she says over the coms device in her helmet, weaving around a traffic light and angling herself carefully to lock onto her target.

There's a dint in the paint on the side of the van where the white has slowly chipped away. Beca lands her second knuckle right _there_ when she slams into the side of the van at full speed, knocking it out of its lane, through the next intersection, and nearly onto the sidewalk.

"Coming through!" she bellows, and _maybe_ she should stop and think of all the people -- screaming and running, diving for cover -- but every thought in Beca's head is clouded in a red rage. She kicks the van onto its side and leaps onto the driver's side door. "Hey, pal," she says, voice low and sinister as it echoes inside the helmet. "Miss me?"

She could cut through the door with a laser or open it the old fashioned way, but Beca opts to plunge her iron fist through the window and drag him out across the shattered glass instead.

It just saves time.

*

Sometime in between Beca kicking the vehicle through traffic and the man clutching his face on the pavement screaming, Aubrey and Jesse show up and work to remove the back door. Chloe's out, she's free, and it would be a tearful reunion if the guy who was with her in the back wasn't trying to get away.

Beca barrels into him with the about the same momentum she applied to the van, sending his body flying like a rag doll. He lands _hard_ and doesn't move again. 

That only leaves his friend.

"Beca," Chloe is saying, smiling, flushed with relief.

"One minute." 

He's stumbling as if the world has just been ripped out from beneath his feet. She knows that feeling. He's dizzy and confused, overwhelmed. 

The blood in his eyes probably doesn't really help matters either. 

Beca kicks his leg where it bends at the knee, and it collapses out from under him with a heavy thud and solid crack. He starts to scream, but the sound chokes out into nothing when she rests one knee on his chest. " _Really_ rude, you know. Trying to bail."

"Beca," someone's voice is saying, but really all Beca can hear is the sound of her own breathing. It's amplified inside the helmet, even heavier than it is already. 

Which is pretty fucking heavy -- loud and undercut with tiny, trembling huffs of anger and frustration.

She feels breathless and dizzy, nearly weightless, even as she leans her weight carefully forward until she can almost _hear_ the man's ribcage starting to crack.

And again, but louder, " _Beca_."

She leans a little further, and the momentum carries forward into a sharp blow to his face, metal colliding with flesh and bone. The resounding crunch is loud enough to cut through even her own breathing.

"Beca," comes the voice again, this time with a hand that tries to pull her away and, operating almost fully on instinct, Beca raises her own, palm out, laser at the ready, but -- 

It's Chloe.

The hand and voice belong to Chloe, and the glowing rage inside of Beca dims -- if only a little. "… oh." She breathes, and the whole sound fills her helmet like steam fogging up a window.

" _Enough_ , okay?" The hand moves across the armor, cupping gently, almost intimately. Like she's familiar with every crook and groove, and probably she is. Fingers find their way around a latch, pull then twist, and release the helmet. 

It lifts, falls away, and Beca is left panting in the sudden stinging brightness of open air -- with Chloe's hands upon her face, still cupping and stroking, still so bold and familiar.

"Enough," she says again, almost a whisper, tracing the planes of Beca's jaw and the contours of her confused frown. 

All Beca can do is work to remember how to breathe naturally again, and so she tries. "Chloe," she breathes out, and with a shuddering shiver breathes back in as Chloe's hand fits itself to her front, right against the chest plate, and her mouth fixes itself to the side of Beca's jaw.

They breathe against each other, saying, "Enough," but it isn't true.

It isn't enough.

It -- 

Chloe's mouth is against Beca's jaw, hand curled delicately against her throat. Her eyes are scrunched up closed and her nose cuts across Beca's cheek as she shifts, turns her head, and suddenly they are kissing.

Beca breathes out with her nose, and they're kissing. 

She takes in with her mouth, and tastes nothing but Chloe. They're _kissing_. It's a strange and heady taste of sadness and near desperation, something frantic and pulsing like the thump of Beca's heart which still hasn't slowed down completely. 

Might never slow to a normal rate again.

*

The front page news the next day isn't of narrowly averted disaster, or even the destruction in midtown.

The headline across every reputable source or tabloid comes accompanied by a series of photos. One Beca Stark, face flushed, with her mouth sealed against Chloe Barton's.

From some angles you can see Aubrey's face, contorted with frustration, shouting for them to knock it off. _"Professionalism, ladies!"_

The most revealing is the video running over and over across every twenty-four hour news source. Sometimes they'll play back the entire thing -- met with hoots from the audience, depending on the program -- and other times they focus only on the ending, when Beca pulls back looking stunned, blinking and afraid, before taking to the sky.

They bring on body language experts to analyze and criticize every frame of Chloe's expression as she watches Beca fly away. The twitch of her frown or the tilt of an eyebrow, and what does it mean for the future of these young Avengers. 

It's a profound waste of time.

Any idiot can see what they should have already known: Beca Stark disappoints in the end.

Disaster, as it turns out, wasn't really avoided at all.

*

It's dad's idea to head to their place in Malibu, where the Stark property line extends far beyond the house itself and paparazzi has to keep well away.

That doesn't stop them from hanging out at the end of the driveway or circling in helicopters overhead. As much as dad talks about added privacy and relaxation by the ocean, there isn't really a lot of peace and quiet to be had. 

But apparently Beca turning into a hermit locked away in her room all day would be a _problem_ for him, so he decides to throw a party. Nothing says Tony Stark quite like forced socialization as a form of therapy. 

In attendance is just about everyone who's anyone, with one family as a fairly notable exception.

No Bartons on the guest list.

Beca can't really say that she minds.

*

The party is loud and so are the people.

And then there's her. She's loud too, in exactly all the right ways. Even how she moves has its own beat and pace. She's some girl Beca doesn't know with bright blue eyes and hair such a coppery brown that in a certain light it might almost look --

It comes easy, naturally, so that Beca doesn't question or take time to analyze. For once. 

" _You're_ Beca Stark, huh?" Big Blue Eyes says, and Beca smiles.

"What gave it away? The photos on the mantel, or…"

Beca points to the arc reactor, and the girl's eyes glow an even brighter blue for just a moment. "Oh," she says, voice hushed and low.

People get like that about it sometimes, especially if they've been drinking, and the girl definitely seems like she's had a couple, which could explain why she's so willing to hand her current drink off to Beca now.

One quick glance to make sure mom and dad aren't around, and she downs it.

*

They're nowhere to be seen, and the party is loud.

The only person who notices Beca slip off to her room is the woman following close behind her. She's barely closed the door when she feels hands clutch her hips and thrust her back into it. 

Yep, definitely closed.

They both laugh, though Beca's is a little short and unsteady. She places both hands on the woman in front of her, leveling herself out again. It's pretty necessary once their mouths are suddenly pressed together and they're kissing. It isn't gentle, but it's hard to say which of them is pushier. 

The woman draws her hands across Beca's shoulders, massaging close to her collarbone, and Beca responds with a surprised grunt and light slap at the hand she feels drifting too close to the reactor.

" _No_ ," Beca nearly growls, their mouths only an inch apart. "You don't touch that."

The girl nods, and Beca does too. 

"Okay." She breathes in and out deeply, releasing tension like air through a valve. "Okay, good."

*

The bed is much too far away from the door. She'll have to fix that later.

For now, they make do.

"Miss Stark," says a voice from the ceiling. "I really don't think your father--"

Beca groans against the crook of the other girl's neck. "Fuck _off_ , JARVIS."

"Language, miss Stark."

"JARVIS, would you _kindly_ fuck off?"

The girl is laughing underneath her, fitting a hand beneath the edge of Beca's shirt and feeling along the lines of her stomach -- Beca's not exactly ripped like Chloe is, but she does okay -- and once JARVIS departs, things go alright from there.


	5. epitaph for my heart

There are probably more romantic ways to lose your virginity. 

Like ones where the other person is still there in the morning would rank pretty high up there, at least comparatively. Beca lies (alone) in bed for about twenty minutes before she works up the resolve to head down the hall in search of -- something.

Maybe breakfast. Definitely coffee.

She finds her mom instead. 

Well, additionally. There's coffee too.

*

"Hey," Beca says, extra cautious. She doesn't know where her parents disappeared to last night, but there's a fair chance at least one of them noticed that Beca disappeared about halfway through the evening.

Or alternatively might've spotted the girl sneaking out of her room this morning.

Judging by the look on her mother's face when she looks up from her tablet -- probably skimming through the morning news -- it's most likely one of those. Or both. They kind of go hand-in-hand.

"Good morning," mom says in a practiced neutral tone that makes it sound as if she finds very little good about it at all. "You and I need to talk."

(Which is terrifying, because talking with her mom is something Beca _really_ doesn't do. She and Tony barely manage to communicate, and they speak nearly the same socially skewed language. Beca's mom is another matter entirely. She actually _articulates_ her feelings, and expects the same in return. It's challenging.)

"Oh, uh." Beca swallows. "Coffee?"

Not that she needs to be told _where_ the coffee maker is. It's in the exact same spot it's been kept in since she was seven -- even if the device itself has evolved over the years with the kind of unnecessarily complicated gadgetry that dad's inclined to add to just about anything when he's bored enough -- but it gives her an excuse to back away from the conversation for at least as long as it takes to make a cup.

Except now mom is _following_ her, so that's not going as planned. "Your father and I have been talking," she says.

Doubly terrifying. But all Beca says is, "What about?" Super innocent and unconcerned, just like Chloe would have done it. Except not really at all, because Beca's never been able to pull it off like she could.

And maybe mom doesn't feel the way she used to about Chloe. Hard to know when nobody in the family really talks about it. 

That day.

"About you," mom says, still really suspiciously neutral and avoidant. Well, except for that slight hitch in her voice -- which is _really_ unnerving Beca -- when she adds, "Your heart."

Oh. So this isn't about -- _Oh_.

Beca waits for the coffee maker to finish without turning around. 

She pours a cup, pivots just far enough to search for milk in the fridge, and finds herself face-to-face with mom's _really_ worried face, and this is seriously too much before coffee, or breakfast, or -- ever. 

"… okay," is all Beca says. That and, "Yeah."

"He's been… working. On something."

"I know."

Which maybe was supposed to be kept a secret, because her mom's face is doing all these _things_ that Beca isn't sure how to take. Distressed things. Worried, mothery things that make Beca wish she were still asleep in bed. 

"We're scheduling surgery for next week."

If it were dad telling her this, Beca would probably object. It _is_ her heart, after all, and people keep making decisions about it beyond her control, but she can't say that to her mom. Not when her eyes are sort of wet and shiny looking -- and she's _still_ blocking the milk -- so you know what, maybe this was all planned out between both her parents, and she's got to hand it to them. 

It's solid strategy. Because all Beca does is nod and walk away.

No coffee needed. She's going back to bed. 

If she's lucky she'll suffocate in the sheets or something.

*

(Unfortunately) Beca survives her nap and all the rest of the days in between it and the flight back home to New York. They use private jet number three, and the reporters are waiting for them on the runway, shouting questions.

Beca only resists the temptation to flick them off because her mom is like two feet away.

*

"Just a minor procedure, no big deal," Tony is saying, but since it's the _fifth_ time he's said it, it's starting to become less convincing. "Don't worry."

"I'm not." Beca laughs. "Or-- I wasn't. Kind of now."

He winks at her and turns to indicate the box behind him with a flourish -- _always_ with a flourish, even now -- but it's not that impressive really when it's still locked shut. He waits, presumably expecting some kind of pleased reaction.

She waits too.

Finally, dad fiddles with the lock and removes the robotics that will become a part of Beca Stark's functioning heart.

It's small. Really, really small.

Like -- that's good, actually. And it makes sense.

But somehow Beca was expecting something grander. 

"Okay," she says, almost reaching out to touch. But she hesitates. Her hand draws back, and she snaps the case closed with the other one.

"Thursday," Tony says, looking like he wants a drink.

"Yeah," says Beca, feeling like she'd kind of like one too.

It's only Tuesday.

*

On Wednesday, they have everyone over to Stark Tower, and all of _them_ are drinking.

Well, none of the kids are, actually, because even if the Bartons would approve, Aubrey would probably never shut up about it. (She likes to hold all the rest of them to the same moral standard her dad instilled in her, which is literally out of the dark ages.) 

The entire Barton family is here, but nobody talks about It. That day.

Nobody really talks about _tomorrow_ either, or the surgery. They don't talk about the metal parts on a pedestal in a corner (almost as if on display), but sometimes Beca catches one of them looking.

Like how Chloe won't stop staring, but maybe that's just because it's a good excuse to avoid making eye contact with Beca. Could be that.

*

"You didn't get a tan."

Jesse's smile is smug, almost a smirk, but his eyes are guarded. He looks Beca up and down slowly, cautiously. Like checking her over for injuries, but she's _fine_. She even laughs, saying, "I never do."

Not that she's complaining. Arc reactor would make for some pretty weirdass tan lines. 

But they haven't got anything else to say it seems, and Beca catches his eyes drifting over to the right. He's looking again, but she can't really blame him.

Because she's looking at _Chloe_ again, except this time Chloe's looking back. It's brief, almost accidental (getting caught watching certainly was), and then Chloe's eyes move back to Beca's mom, smiling into the conversation.

"She misses you," Jesse says, and Beca can't read any of the unspoken things in his voice. (No big surprise, she's about twenty times better at reading C++ than she is at finding the hidden meanings behind the things that people she's known her entire life say.) When she turns her head again, it's like he's taken a step closer. Already big eyes gone huge. "She _really_ misses you."

Yeah, he means something more than just that. Definitely.

And Beca _really_ wants a drink in her hand, because at least then she could be drinking it instead of staring, feeling stupid. "… oh." Jesse lifts his eyebrows like he expects _more_ than that, so she adds, "Okay, fine."

He still doesn't look satisfied, and it's starting to turn into that pissy, eyebrow scrunching anger thing he does sometimes. Great. "Look." He sighs, and then _shoves_ more than nudges her toward Chloe (and Beca's _mother_ , has he no shame), saying, "You two _really_ need to talk."

*

Rather than risk being man-handled around her own (hopefully not a farewell) party, Beca takes Jesse's advice.

Except she waits until Chloe _isn't_ with mom, because that could (definitely _would_ ) get weird. Not that finding her standing next to the pieces of electronics and metal that are meant to go inside of Beca is exceptionally _not_ weird. 

It's pretty strange too.

"Um," Beca says, really articulate and smooth. And then, "Hey."

Chloe doesn't turn around at first, but her shoulders shift (tensing) and then release. "… hey." Her voice is _so_ quiet that Beca immediately feels invasive. Like she's intruding, but she's not even sure what private moment she might have stumbled in on.

That is until Chloe turns her head, and it's obvious she's been crying. Not on the level of mascara smearing and blotchy face, but her eyes are still a little red and there's a tear (or two) on her cheek that she brushes away with a weak, unsteady smile. "Becaaa," she says in a playful drawl, letting the extended vowel curl around inside Beca's ear as a hand eases onto her hip, pulling her closer. It's the first time they've been this close since -- 

Well, obviously. Of course it is. It's the first time they've _spoken_ since that day, and it's not weird. It doesn't have to be weird.

Well, except for the crying. That's pretty weird, since Chloe's kind of a hardass usually. "You okay?" Beca asks, which she normally wouldn't (and probably shouldn't), but maybe she owes Chloe this. (She probably owes Chloe a lot of things, like an apology or explanation, but those aren't for today.)

"I'm fine," Chloe says, but her smile is just so _false_. She's usually a better liar. "Just--"

She breaks off, and Beca's eyebrows lift. "Just?"

"Worried, I guess."

"About--" But Chloe is nodding toward _it_ \-- the new half of Beca's heart -- and the only thing she can do really is laugh, even if it sounds strange (and strained) in her own ears. "What? No way. Dude, I'm _fine_." 

The look Chloe gives her says that they're both about equally convincing at the moment, but Beca just shakes her head. 

"I'm serious." She's not sure when Chloe pulled her in so close, but Beca braces a hand against Chloe's shoulder, and feels _her_ heart beating. It's faster than it ought to be. "Don't worry," Beca says, even though she's pretty sure it won't make a difference. "Not like I've got something there to begin with, right?"

She means it as a joke. It's just supposed to be a _joke_ , but Chloe frowns. Her whole face distorts (almost as if on instinct) and she kind of looks like she does when they're sparring and she's about to take Beca out.

Beca's own instinct is to take a step back, but Chloe's arms are actually wrapped _around_ her (when did that happen), and it's easier just to put on a placating grin and stay put. "Hey--"

"Don't be such an idiot, Beca," Chloe says in this _voice_ that makes the heart that Beca might not even have constrict slightly. Yeah, she and Jesse are definitely related; they both know how to say things in a way that leaves Beca feeling slightly out of step. 

Like she missed something _really_ important. "Okay," she says. "Sorry."

Chloe just nods, rubbing her hand back and forth across Beca's shoulder. She squeezes a few times, and finally smiles in a way that's almost natural. It's such a relief. "Thank you," she says quietly, leaning in again, and her voice echoes inside Beca's ear just as her thumb vibrates slightly against the hum at the edge of the reactor core. 

Beca swallows (thickly), but doesn't move.

*

She wakes up after surgery with tubes in her wrist and for one (fleeting) foggy moment, her heart wrenches in panic. She forgets the months (a full year and a half) that have passed away between fifteen and now, and a strange fear grips her tight.

The doctor's are all in a panic over the state of her new and delicate heart. They say something about the odds of the body rejecting foreign matter -- scattered amongst discussion of the risk of hemorrhaging -- and the next thing she knows is darkness.

*

("Can I touch it?" Chloe had asked.

Beca was pretty sure she meant the thing that would be her heart. 

It's kind of a silly question, especially when said in _that_ way that's all wide-eyed wonder -- shit, it's _no wonder_ mom usually falls for her schtick -- so that Beca had to laugh. 

It was a strange request, but Beca couldn't think of a any reason to say no, so she shrugged.

Chloe Barton took the pieces (scattered and small) of Beca's Stark's heart in her hands and planted a kiss on each one. Then she smiled, saying, "Now you're taking me with you tomorrow."

It was crazy, like something out of a dream. 

"You're so needy, Barton."

Maybe it was (only) just a dream?)

*

Beca wakes up to Chloe lying in her bed, and for a moment she wonders if she's still dreaming.

Or -- is this a slumber party? Has she forgotten yesterday?

But the IVs are still in her arm and her voice is raw, throat uncomfortably dry when she tries to speak, saying only, "Hi."

Chloe's eyes are wide open but her fists are balled up tight. Curled up on her side but taking up very little of the bed, she seems smaller than Beca has ever seen her. "Sorry," she says in a whisper so soft that Beca almost leans in closer. "I didn't mean--" She breathes in deeply, with a shudder. "You were knocked out cold."

"I know," and Beca laughs. 

When Chloe doesn't join her, she searches her face for a reason -- some cause to be so quiet and cautious.

"My heart--"

"You're good. Don't worry."

"Okay," is all Beca says, feeling her eyes slip shut again. She tries to lift her eyelids back open, but no such luck. "Chloe?"

Her voice is sloppy, slurring, and drifting off into slumber. 

But through the blackness, she can still hear Chloe whisper, saying, "I'll be right here."

*

Headline: _My Night With Beca Stark_

Apparently Beca is front page news, so at least that's flattering. (Some of the descriptions of the evening are far less so. _Over in an instant?_ Like, _really_?) But nobody is talking about it with her (again), except Jesse won't stop snickering when he stops by to visit and Aubrey just looks scandalized.

But Aubrey always looks at Beca that way, so maybe she hasn't read the paper yet.

And Chloe -- 

Chloe doesn't stop by after that. So.

*

But Clint is pretty cool about things, giving her high five on the way out the door. "Heartbreaker!" he shouts, and then (realizing the potential for a pun), laughs and offers an additional thumbs up.

It's kind of amazing that Natasha doesn't kick his ass more often than she already does, really.

*

The new heart is fine. No real noticeable difference, but dad says it's "more stable."

Whatever that's supposed to mean. 

He's being really (weirdly) vague about the details of the implants, so of course Beca takes it upon herself to investigate as soon as she gets home. Dad's office is protected by a couple layers of security, sure, and everything on his computer is encrypted. 

But her dad is really the only person Beca can read with just about perfect accuracy, so she bypasses all of that easily enough. Barely takes her five minutes.

Beca's not expecting something dark and nefarious (or even slightly sinister) really. Most likely her dad simply didn't want to talk about anything that might result in either of them crying. (He's a parent; they do that sometimes.) This is how it's always been between them, and it works. They _make_ it work.

But Beca's curiosity is insatiable, and this is _her_ heart. It's already enough of a mystery without its biology being a total secret too. 

She skips past all the emails between mom and dad (because ew) and overlooks the occasional message from accounting or marketing. (Most of those get sent to mom anyway.) She saves a backup of a few other top secret designs along the way before pulling every file that dad has about the things inside of Beca's body. 

She'll make duplicates later (hell, maybe triplicates), but for now it's enough just to grab and go.

Except she hesitates.

Because there buried deep in the folders where her dad stashes the really filthy porn -- right alongside his elaborate plans for anniversaries and birthdays -- Beca finds a list. 

Names, addresses, and account numbers.

It's the list of those who died in the explosion (from Tony Stark's bomb) over a year ago. Beca knows because she recognizes one name in particular. 

Trevor Morgan. 

He was the one standing next to her at the time of the blast. The angry man with the accusations and bad timing. He was so close that they were almost breathing the same air.

But he died. Beca survived.

He looks different in his ID photo -- younger, and smiling. Less tired (and not nearly as pissed) as he had been the day Beca saw him. Stare at the picture long enough and you can see the guy who hopped on a plane to try to make other people's lives better.

It's --

Something.

*

Beca takes that list too, along with the rest of the data.

She double-checks her work and covers _most_ of her tracks, leaving a handwritten note behind saying dad's idea for a romantic anniversary dinner sounds really crappy, maybe he should go for something slightly more personal.

She's out the door just as security rounds the corner. "Better luck next time, Jerry."

For some reason the security team never really seem to _get_ Beca's humor.

*

He died -- they _all_ did, all thirty-six -- but she survived. And she's fine now. ( _Really_.)

There has to be a reason, right?

Some higher purpose. Greater calling. Not just the suit and the stupid stunts, but --

Something.

Work in progress. To be determined. Destiny as of yet unknown.

Step 1: confirm the addresses she assumes belong to the surviving family members of the deceased.

Step 2: think of something to do after Step 1.

How very organized and mature of her. Aubrey would be so impressed. (Note: she absolutely would not be.) But at least it's a start.

It's something.


	6. and life goes on (and on and on)

Trevor Morgan is ( _was_ ) an Aries. 

He was studying Elementary Education at the University of Portland. Two brothers and a younger sister. Father deceased, killed in the service. (Possibly by Stark ammunitions in the possession of terrorists? Worth exploring further.)

Mother on disability, but benefits cut (drastically) after two years. Trevor leaves school at twenty, returns home to Corvallis to help raise the kids. Gets a job as a mechanic, and dedicates himself to local charities in his spare time.

Saves for a year to afford the trip to dispose of decommissioned Stark weapons and ammunition. Bought souvenirs (simple trinkets) for the kids back home -- discovered in his suitcase at the hotel, along with a diary. 

The last entry mentions his father's name no less than six times.

*

Trevor looks happy in a photo from his freshman year, his arm around a young woman (presumably his girlfriend) and smiling into the middle distance -- like he can see a possible future that would never come to pass.

He died with his father's dog tags round his neck and a marine corps switch blade in his pocket.

He died with Beca Stark's frightened face as the last thing he ever saw, burned to the back of his eyelids when the blast seared straight through them both.

*

Beca does her research from the balcony so that dad can't accuse her of holing up in her room (again), but now she's stuck doing most of it while wearing the _suit_ because mom doesn't like how close to the edge she prefers to sit.

This is compromise. It shows how mature and adult Beca's really become. 

Plus every once in a while, when she starts feeling anxious, she zips up some thirty odd feet in the air and scares the shit out of passing birds.

Yes, this is mature Beca Stark at her finest. That's why the noise she makes when interrupted doing loop-de-loops through the air is obviously far too dignified to be called a yelp or even a shout. It was just a hearty greeting, okay, and probably there was a "hi!" in there somewhere.

Even if the amused look on Stacie Hill's face suggests she wouldn't buy that for a minute.

*

Beca doesn't land right away, since that's a fair excuse to keep the helmet on. The better to hide her surprise, even if it's probably evident in the rushing together of, "What're you doing here?"

"Wow," Stacie laughs, squinting up. "Good to see you too."

"That's not--" Beca begins, but obviously it is _exactly_ what she just implied, so hold on; "I'm just surprised."

"Yeah, well, you just had _heart surgery_. I haven't seen you. Are you okay?" The squinting is starting to turn into frowning. "I mean, obviously you _are_. You're flying upside down." More squinting. "Hey Beca, is this your version of _flirting_?"

Beca lands abruptly (jarringly), because really it is _not_. "I'm good, and I wasn't--" is as far as she gets before Stacie smirks. Oh. "Saw the paper, huh?"

"Yeah, I do read." She shrugs. "Also, twitter."

"… what _about_ twitter?"

"Ohhh, nothing." Stacie shrugs again, but the smirk just got bigger. "Never mind."

Twitter is another social outlet Beca has largely been avoiding. Aubrey loves to update with inspirational quotes or thoughts for the day -- at least that's what she _says_ she's doing every time she pulls out her phone -- but Beca barely wants to verbalize her thoughts to other people _aloud_ \-- and these are people she knows and (mostly) likes -- why would she waste her time on her cell typing it too?

Plus apparently people talk a lot of shit about her there. Guess getting laid wasn't likely to change that.

"But you're good!" Stacie gives her a look of appraisal, nodding. "And you look good. The suit is sexy."

"Um, thanks." Beca fidgets, suddenly left with a strong urge to be _out_ of the suit -- and not in a sexy way. "You're the one flirting now, right?"

"Quick study."

*

Jay Wheatley. 23.

Former business major turned social activist. Born and raised in a suburb of Cleveland, Ohio. Son of Pam and Mitch Wheatley. 

Madison DeLuca. 19.

Ballerina and enthusiastic supporter of the arts. Became involved in local charity work through her church at age twelve.

(Same age Beca Stark was using her own private lab and endless resources to build a small army of otherwise pointless robots to clean her bedroom for her.)

Eventually, Madison went global. Stark ammunitions wasn't her first target. She'd already contributed time (and money) to providing clean water to small communities in Uganda.

*

Adam Clark, 23. Hugh Miller, 19. Sarah Burton, 34, mother of two. Abigail Parker, 47, spent the past thirteen years heavily involved in cancer research.

Skylar Fuller, 22. Desiree Brown, 23, and twenty-seven others.

All that weighed against the life of one (small, vulnerable, struggling) girl and it's hard to see how you make it all balance out. 

Maybe you never do.

It could be that (inevitable) failure is the real secret here.

*

It starts out like any other sparring practice -- with Beca on her back a good sixty percent of the time, since her partner today is Natasha instead of Chloe -- and it's only once Beca's really panting and flustered (with a bruise forming over the left side of her torso), that Natasha says, "I thought we ought to change things up a little."

Beca's emptying her water bottle over her face at the time, but she takes a quick moment to squint across the room at --

The fuck?

Since when does Bruce Banner attend any sort of training practice? Hell, since when does Bruce _attend?_

"Beca..." His smile is polite but pained. She's seen it on his face before. It's the look of a doctor diagnosing his patient.

And then it hits her. What Bruce does better than anyone else. "Oh-- no! You have _got_ to be kidding." She shoots a sharp look at Natasha, which really isn't helping her case when she says, "I don't _have_ a problem with anger."

The two adults exchange a look that, quite frankly, is infuriating.

"I'm not--" Beca huffs in frustration. "No offense, Bruce, but I'm not _you_."

"None taken," he says, but the edges of his smile look a little less natural and calm. "All the same, I still think that we should... talk."

The door clicks shut, and apparently Natasha has bailed. Great. Beca's left alone to argue with the guy who turns into a rage monster when provoked. What could possibly go wrong? 

"Okay," she says, putting some distance between herself and Bruce by _casually_ strolling to the other side of the ring. "So, talk."

The smile on his face says he's seen all this before, and he's probably thinking that if the big guy came out to play he could clear the distance between them in three strides. Maybe two. 

"Well," he says with the utmost attempt at hiding his condescension; "first we need to figure out _why_ you got so angry--"

"That's dumb."

Bruce lifts his eyebrows at her. He's not really a guy who's used to people mouthing off -- probably not a lot of people other than Beca's dad, in fact -- and could be he's impressed, or maybe just amused. "How so?"

"Because it's _obvious_ why." But judging by his look, it's not actually so obvious at all. 

Or more likely, he's testing her. That'd be precisely the kind of zen bullshit Bruce would be inclined to pull. 

But okay, Beca will bite. "Say it was Benji. _You_ wouldn't have been pissed?" And maybe the _you_ is more pointed than she intends. Whatever, it's accurate. 

A scientist like Bruce should be able to appreciate accuracy, and maybe that's why his smile is almost natural again when he says, "Benji's my _son_ , Beca. It's hardly the same thing as--"

"Chloe is my _friend_." 

She should probably stop interrupting the rage monster in the small man-suit. 

Probably.

"Okay," Bruce nods, but she can tell that he's not finished. He's building up to something. "And what if it was -- Aubrey? Or Benji."

Okay, but that's not fair. _The Hulk_ can't just ask Beca what she thinks of his son on a scale of one to ten and expect a straight answer. "Um," Beca laughs. "No offense--"

"Again, none taken."

"-- but Benji and I aren't exactly _that_ close."

" _How_ close?"

The question feels like it might be one of those that mean something more than just the words themselves. He's _staring_ at her now, almost without blinking, so that Beca stares right back. 

Even when Bruce speaks again, her eyes don't leave his. 

"What were you going to _do_ , Beca?"

She doesn't look away. She doesn't blink. "You _know_ what I was going to do."

"Beca--"

"I was going to send my fist through his fucking skull." 

Bruce blinks at her, but he doesn't look surprised. She stares at him (hard), and for just one single moment it's like something else inside of him looks back. "Beca," he begins, softly, but then stops. 

He blinks some more.

And then, simply: "Why?"

Beca doesn't even hesitate. "So the next guy thinks twice. Because I'd do it to him, too." It really is that simple. And also, "She should have _let_ me do it."

"Beca."

But this time it isn't Bruce. This time the voice is coming from the door.

This time it's Chloe.

*

"Five minutes," Chloe had said, before dragging Beca away to her room.

( _"Five minutes, and then you can have her back, Bruce."_ )

She'd like to say that she's getting really tired of people pushing her around like some dumb doll, but actually it's not all that new and at least Chloe usually ends each sentence with, "okay?"

Like now, with her hands folded gently in front of her -- and her eyes directed at the _bed_ in the center of the room -- when Chloe says, "You can sit, if you want?" there's definitely an implied question at the end. It goes well with the affectionate smile and curious tilt of her head.

It's reassuring, is what it is, but maybe not so much that Beca is just going to sit on Chloe's _bed_ of all places. Really, she'd rather stand. "I'm fine," she mumbles, but then also, "Thanks."

It's quiet then, and even as she avoids eye contact Beca's left with the uncomfortable feeling that Chloe's sizing her up. 

"I don't need you to take care of me, Beca."

Sizing her up _and_ finding her wanting. Fantastic.

Because even as gently as Chloe says it, somehow it still feels like an accusation. 

Maybe just because Beca herself feels so guilty. "Not with the shitty job I've been doing, yeah." She laughs, but it's not an amused sound and it's not her dad's false, but smug bravado, either; it's way more deflated than that. "I guess so."

But Chloe is shaking her head, moving in closer, and it's only out of instinct that Beca takes a single step back. 

Chloe stops. She looks -- well, _wounded_ , actually, but only for a moment and then it's gone. Trained professional, right? Practiced in the art of not feeling.

Beca could give her a few tips, though.

"I thought you wanted to be a leader," Chloe is saying very _reasonably_ , rationally (and _calmly_ ), in the sort of voice her mother probably uses when trying to get a terrorist to lower his gun.

"I never said that," Beca responds, in the voice of a child who isn't getting her way. "What I said was I don't want _Aubrey_ to be leader." Obviously pleased with herself, Beca can't help but smirk a little.

Even if Chloe is pretty clearly not in the mood. "That's not the point."

"But--"

"The _point_ ," Chloe says, sharply; "is leadership is about trusting in the _group_. Looking out for each other." This time the step forward is so fast that Beca doesn't have a chance to respond before suddenly they're inches apart and Chloe's hand is on her shoulder. "So that's what I was doing." She squeezes.

Beca swallows.

Chloe's hands are small, but they never really feel it. They're deft and confident (frequently invasive) and move with an easy self-assurance so that they _seem_ to occupy more space than they really do. When her thumb rests against the base of Beca's throat so that the rest of the hand clasps further down the back of her shoulder, it's oddly comforting in its rightness. Just exactly the place Beca wanted ( _needed_ ) to be touched, and she could almost smile.

Almost. 

But she has to protest instead, mumbling, "You don't have to--"

" _You_ don't just take care of me, and I don't _just_ take care of _you_." Another squeeze. "The _point_ is both of us taking care of each other." Chloe's smile is really gentle (if a little tired), and it creeps up around the edges of her expression, crinkling close to her eyes. It makes her mouth seem larger -- like suddenly all of her face is occupied in the business of smiling -- and so is it a wonder when Beca's mouth finds its way to hers?

It's almost inevitable. 

Like Beca is caught in the gravitational pull of Chloe's orbit, always circling, but then wouldn't that make collision a disaster on a massive scale?

Shouldn't she probably want to stop?

But she doesn't, she _really_ doesn't. Not until Chloe's hand reaches around to grasp the back of Beca's neck, deepening the kiss. 

Then Beca kind of needs to _breathe_ \-- kind of feels like she can't breathe at all -- pulling back with a way too over-dramatic gasp. "… shit, sorry." She swallows. "My bad."

"No," Chloe says, her expression fighting between a grin and a smirk. "It was pretty okay." She straightens the shirt across Beca's shoulders and leaves one hand lingering close to her throat.

"Uh." When Beca swallows, she _feels_ it. "Can we-- Actually."

Chloe's eyebrows lift, and now she's just _amused_.

"… I need your help."

*

Madison DeLuca's family lives just two hours away by plane.

Indiana's actually kind of nice this time of year.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Chloe asks for maybe the fourth time and Beca checks (yet again) that her jacket is zipped all the way up so that the glow is completely hidden. 

No robot core required when making a first impression. 

"Yeah, I'm good."

*

It's a two story house with a flower bed out front. White lilies.

Beca swallows (hard) and doesn't pull away when Chloe squeezes her arm, leading her toward the door.

The woman who answers is smiling, bright and shiny in a way that makes Beca feel just that little bit dimmer.

Chloe more than makes up for it, though. "Mrs. DeLuca?" she says, all smiles. That really _radiant_ kind of smile only Chloe seems to manage that lights up her entire face.

But the woman's eyes haven't left Beca since latching on somewhere close to her jawline, and the smile is starting to grow strained. Not so bright anymore. 

Apparently no robot core required for recognition. Beca's reputation precedes her.

"Yes," the woman is saying, less pleased to have company than she was just moments ago. "What do you want?"

"We were, uh." Beca swallows. "Um."

Chloe eases herself into the conversation again, one gentle hand on Beca's shoulder. "Can we come in, ma'am? We'll be quick, I promise."

The woman's eyes are still on Beca, though, making her flush. 

Making her fidget and look away, staring at the welcome mat instead. It has ducks on it. A whole family of them, all in a row. Together they hold a sign that says, _Welcome_.

"Alright," the woman says slowly, reluctantly, looking very much like she wishes she could adjust the duck's sign to include, _everyone except Beca Stark._

"Thank you," Beca mumbles, still not looking the woman in the eye as she steps inside -- quickly wiping her feet off on the mat as she goes.

*

Madison is everywhere.

Photos over the fireplace and hanging in the hall. 

Photos of her as a child, hair a mess and squinting into sunlight, laughing. Family portraits of just her and her parents. No siblings. Only child. 

No one left.

Beca clasps her hands in front of herself and then releases just as quickly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She feels ready to bolt, but Chloe's hand settles down on her shoulder again, keeping her in place.

"I like your place," Beca says quietly, still not quite enunciating.

"Well," the woman (Mrs. DeLuca) is saying in a voice undercut with a bitterness that doesn't quite fit with her kind features. "It's nothing fancy like you might find in New York."

Beca's heart is pounding so hard, she almost wonders if it could increase the white hot glow of the reactor.

Maybe soon they'll be able to see it through the two shirt layers and jacket.

"No, ma'am," Beca says, and she's not certain if she's agreeing or disagreeing. Maybe she's just speaking to fill the gaps.

"I suppose you've come to stop the checks."

Which --

Actually, Beca has a _vague_ idea what that might refer to, but it's still just speculation. 

It just makes the most sense that her dad would be maintaining an up-to-date address listing for all surviving families if he requires it for mailing payments. Compensation for lives lost. 

As if you can put a dollar amount on _"never again."_

(And if Mrs. DeLuca's barely suppressed anger is any indication, it hasn't been nearly as comforting as he probably hoped.)

But all Beca can say (again) is, "No, ma'am."

"Then what?"

"Um."

"I told Tony Stark I didn't want to see him. I told him that _four_ times." Mrs. DeLuca begins drawing closer. "And I _certainly_ have no interest in speaking with _you_."

Beca swallows. "Yes, ma'am."

And that would seem to be that.

Except -- 

"Beca, didn't you say you needed to use the restroom during the flight?" 

Chloe's giving her a _look_ that immediately shuts Beca's mouth, which had actually started opening of its own accord, ready to disagree. 

Because she hadn't. The plane _has_ a restroom, and Beca had already-- 

"Why don't you go freshen up," Chloe is saying, eyebrows lifting; "and I'll finish off this conversation with Mrs. DeLuca?"

_Oh_.

Maybe it should be mortifying, how eager Beca is to abandon Chloe to the task at hand alone. (How sickeningly _grateful_ she is.) But all Beca can really feel is relief, flushed and filling, buoying her back up.

She smiles.

"Oh," she says. "Yeah."

*

"Ballet," Chloe says, once they're far enough from the house.

"You sure?"

She just nods, walking in time with Beca's own strides. "Her charity work was important to her, but the _family's_ fondest memories of her are ballet."

"Okay," Beca says, hands thrust into her jacket pockets, trusting in Chloe's instincts. But then also nudging lightly, almost falling out of step, she adds, "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

*

One of the (several) articles about the night Beca Stark lost her virginity -- though thank god none of them actually refer to it that way, the stranger didn't know her _nearly_ well enough -- makes mention of a tattoo on her back. It's turned into a joke, though that's not really a surprise.

The tattoo, high along the shoulder blade, is designed to look like some part of a damaged machine or cyborg. A partial-human whose flesh has been flayed, revealing the robotics below. 

_"Horrific,"_ the woman is quoted as saying. _"Beca Stark's obsession with her own disability is troubling."_

She goes on to describe (in great, excessive detail) how Beca forced her hand into the cavernous hole inside her chest and then _"grew extremely aroused"_ at the intrusion.

Okay, well.

The tattoo is real, at least.

*

Chloe's hand dangles near Beca's throat with an arm slung across her shoulder, leaning in so close that they both sway, but Beca keeps her feet heading straight down fifth avenue.

"Let me take you out," Chloe is saying.

"Out--?"

"Stacie and I." Chloe's grin is wicked, _knowing_ in an especially dangerous way that makes Beca's stomach turn over in knots. "You'll love it."

She's not completely sure, but finds it hard to argue with that smile or the slow and steady rhythm of Chloe's swaying hips, lulling Beca into the same relentless steps onward.

*

Chloe makes it a dare to see who can get a car the fastest.

Beca suspects that might mean that both she and Stacie plan to hotwire some bridge and tunnel asshole's ride, but Beca snags the keys for one of her dad's sports cars (purple, it's her color) and calls them up on her way across town, well ahead of schedule.

"You ladies better look your best, you know," she says with all the cockiness that comes with driving a nice car past a _lot_ of people and seeing plenty of them turn to look. The kind of bravado she's seen her father slip into like a jacket. "I only go out with real high class ladies."

Chloe just rolls her eyes, but Stacie's laughter is loud and unrestrained. "Oh, _really_? 'Cause that's not what the _Post_ said about--"

"I can't hear you, sorry-- bye!"

*

The club is easy to get to, and packed enough without being overcrowded.

They're even let inside with relative ease, despite being incredibly underage -- _obviously_ so, what with Beca's high profile and the night light in her chest, which doesn't exactly scream _low key_. But the guy out front just waves them through, and Beca thinks she picks up snatches of conversation between Chloe and Stacie about his name (Paulie), and how he's a nice guy, a little handsy, but with a talented mouth.

They're both speaking at the same time -- arguing, agreeing, talking over one another -- so that Beca has a little trouble keeping track of which -- or is it both? -- has experience with Paulie's wandering hands and wonderful mouth.

She decides it's better not to ask.

*

Because Paulie isn't actually the problem. He waved them through with barely a second glance -- like super heroes kind of _bore_ him at this point, and hey its New York, so maybe they do -- but the hipsters and other college miscreants pretending not to notice while all drawing their cell phones out at once are another thing completely.

They make the night a little less pleasant. 

They stare, and when they stop it's because they're tweeting about it. Beca's _so_ fucking sure -- and about three drinks in, she'll beg Chloe or Stacie to check their twitter timeline, then lose that train of thought again completely -- but _for now_ the absolute worst is when they move past creeping and peeping into talking.

Because some of them really do insist on _talking_ to them. 

Like the guy with the fitted leather jacket and cheesy smile, who eyes them all, but focuses on Beca when he says, "Can I get you ladies a drink?"

Stacie seems sort of into it -- Chloe's kind of noncommittal -- but Beca seriously doesn't like the way his eyes keep drifting… down.

"So, you're--"

"Obviously." She shifts in her place leaning against the bar, all teeth and bristling attitude. She applied the eyeliner heavy tonight, pulling the edges of her sharp smile into even tighter angles. "Yeah, wow. You've got eyes!"

His expression closes off immediately, and Stacie's laughter -- it's a loud, robust sort of amusement -- doesn't help at all. "Oh, so… you _are_ a dyke," and you know, it's not exactly spiteful. Way more defensive ( _conversational_ ) than vindictive, but that doesn't stop Chloe from taking a step into his path.

"You're going to want to turn around and go now."

And if Beca thought her own smile was brittle and insincere, holy shit. Chloe is the _master_. 

"Um," Beca clears her throat and Chloe shoots her a look. "About that drink?"

"… you're going to buy my friend a drink by way of apology--"

"And mine!" 

"-- you're going to buy _both_ my friends their drinks, and _then_ you're going to go."

His eyes shift between them, weighing the situation -- and the odds. "You're kidding."

Stacie laughs, sort of high pitched and nasal, and something about it is even crueler than before. "Does she _look_ like she's kidding?"

"I am not kidding."

Beca nods several times, using her sincere enthusiasm to try to mask her horribly pleased smirk. "I'd do it, dude. She can kill a man with--"

"A straw."

Chloe shrugs. "Find me a big enough one, sure."

That sets Stacie off into another fit of giggles. Probably because it's true.

*

The guy isn't the last to notice -- or make really loud, really _pointed_ observations about Beca -- but Chloe does a fine job of playing guard dog all night.

"Barton," Beca says, laughing but kind of bemused. "You are _hot_ when you're angry."

Stacie whistles, swiveling on her stool. "So, whenever she's with you, then?"

"Hey," Beca objects, although she's still laughing. "Chloe and I get along fine. I'll have you know, I'm very amiable."

Stacie groans. "Ooh, big word, too sober. Less talking, more drinking."

Beca shrugs and doesn't really argue.

*

The guy hitting on Chloe is handsome, well groomed, but his eyes have moved down to Chloe's tits about five times now. Subtle. Classy.

Beca downs another drink and smirks over at Stacie. "She's _really_ working it, huh?"

"Uhh." Stacie blinks over at Chloe, as if noticing the guy for the first time. "Handsome. Workable."

Sure, in a face too squared off and nose too smashed in kind of way. He's _okay_. Kissable, maybe, but--

"Go get him, Red," Stacie laughs, because Chloe's rubbing her hand over the guy's bicep, stroking up along his arm.

He laughs and leans in closer, whispering something in her ear. "… huh," Beca mumbles, something unsettling in her stomach. Maybe she's been drinking too fast?

"Oh, come on, _Stark_." Stacie is smirking at her in that _knowing_ way she has where it's like she's imagining you naked -- or maybe she's secretly got photos. "Did you want a piece of that?"

She nods in indication of either Chloe or the guy, it's not actually clear which one, and Beca laughs too quickly. "I'm-- No." She wipes her mouth with her thumb and shrugs, feeling boneless and loose as she takes one step forward and then the next.

Stacie tries to grab hold of her elbow, but she shrugs it off easy, inspiring a laugh when Stacie says, "The _fuck_ you doing-- _Stark_ \--"

The guy is shooting Beca a look over the top of Chloe's head, sort of gazing down on both of them, which at least means he's not staring _directly_ at Chloe's breasts anymore. It's _almost_ eye contact, so hey. Improvement. 

"Chlo," Beca says, her voice a lot louder than she intends. She kind of _meant_ for it to be smooth and silky like she's pretty sure her saunter was, but it feels a lot more like she's shouting to be heard over what little music there is in the bar.

Chloe turns and lifts her eyebrows, laughing. "Beca!"

"Uh-huh."

"Did you meet Ryan?"

His smile is a little bit strained now, almost suspicious. He knows how it works when one girl comes to lead another away. "Don't believe I've had the pleasure."

"Yeah, you haven't." She doesn't offer her hand, and her smile is probably way too overtly condescending. "I'm Beca, and I'm buying the next round, so--" She slips her arm around Chloe's hip like it's that easy, and at the moment it kind of is. "Sorry, Ryan." 

Beca winks at him, but he just glowers.

"Girls night," she says, tugging Chloe backward toward the bar. "You know how it is."

Giggling, stumbling just once when Beca pulls especially sharp, Chloe blows him a kiss before she turns, tilting her head against Beca's shoulder. "Oh, you're _bad_."

"What?" Beca laughs to hide any of her wounded pride. "I'm _buying_. That's the total opposite of rude."

"If you say so."

Stacie is laughing too when the two of them return, holding her index fingers up in indication of _length_ which wavers back and forth between minuscule and average.

"I didn't _check_ ," Chloe says, rolling her eyes, and placing her next order with a thumb jerked in Beca's direction. "On her."

*

Beca buys the next _two_ rounds, actually, and by the time they finish them off, Ryan has given up on circling around.

She lets Stacie take the next one.

*

Stacie gets picked up by an attractive blond with a motorcycle.

"Your aunt isn't going to kick your ass for that?" Beca asks, shouting over the revving of the motor. "I mean, those things are--"

"Nuh-uh," Stacie says, shaking her head. "No, I'm not getting a lecture from the girl with the _flying_ death trap."

Chloe laughs _way_ too hard. It wasn't even that cute.

Neither is the guy actually, but he looks pretty good with Stacie pressed against his back. Maybe it's the way his eyes light up -- like sure, who wouldn't with _those_ at their back -- or it could be whatever she's whispering in his ear, making him laugh one of those low, full-body laughs. Kind of charming.

Either way, they don't really hang around for any more disagreement.

*

Beca wakes up in Chloe's bed with one Barton slung against her shoulder and another standing over her with a bowl of cereal and a smirk.

" _Early_ ," Beca groans, turning over and burrowing under Chloe's hair to try to find her pillow. "Early!"

"I guess someone drank a little too _much_ last night."

Jesse's laugh is like a fucking sledgehammer pounding against her head. Over and over.

Now there's a thought.

"Chloe," Beca mumbles; "Gimme a hammer. Your brother deserves it."

But he's still chuckling around mouthfuls of cereal, sending a spittle shower of milk out when he _tsks_. "My, my, Miss Rebecca Stark. Am I _mistaken_ or are you only seventeen and therefor not legally old enough to drink in _any_ state?"

Beca groans, and the situation actually _isn't_ improved any when Chloe shifts, taking Beca right along with her, to swat at Jesse.

"Hey!" He yelps and laughs, brandishing his spoon like a weapon. "That seriously-- _ow_ , fuck-- _Chloe!_ "

Now Chloe is getting _up_ and the whole bed is shifting, and seriously. _Seriously_. Beca tries to find another pillow to hide her head under, because seriously. Guys-- Just--

_Fucking seriously_.

"Russia," she mumbles, curling up into a small fetal ball and drooling slightly on the sheets.

" _Again_ with Russia," but Jesse is laughing even as he _bounces_ his knees against the edge of the bed, and oh jesus-- _Oh._

One more time, and Beca really might-- She might-- 

"Beca?"

Chloe's hand on her spine is really warm (maybe _too_ warm), but it's steadying too. It helps when all she can do in response is a whimpered, "Mmhm."

There's another slapping sound that she kind of has to assume is a part of Jesse -- but probably _not_ a sledgehammer to the face -- and then Chloe is pulling away the pillows.

"Nooo," Beca groans and shuts her eyes, but suddenly she has a Barton at each shoulder and they're literally lifting her up from the bed.

Cheaters.

*

After a lot more water -- and honestly a lot less Jesse -- Beca's feeling slightly more human, which is a good start.

Even if the kind of knowing, oh I'm so much _wiser_ since I'm a whole two years older sort of _look_ on Chloe's face is absolutely infuriating.

Beca's honestly tired of people looking at her like they know better just because they're old and have seen more. Like, sure. True! But she's fucking _smart_ , okay, jesus christ, just cut her a little slack.

Except probably Chloe doesn't mean anything by it, and it's hard to stay annoyed when she keeps bumping her hip into Beca's lightly, teasingly. "So."

"So?"

" _So_ , you had fun."

"… I guess." Beca drinks more water and grimaces. "Less so now."

"We'll work on that part." 

At some point, Chloe's hand must have found its way to the small of Beca's back, because it's rubbing there, lightly. Kind of soothing.

She takes another drink. "Yeah, okay."

*

Jesse is invited to come along this time, just as long as he promises not to say anything stupid.

"But Beca," he says, frowning in mock confusion. "Why're _you_ coming then?"

Oh, the hilarity.

She waits until he's walking ahead and takes the opportunity to place a well timed kick at the back of his heel just as he's stepping. He jerks, awkwardly stumbles, and comes down abruptly flat-footed, shooting a look back over his shoulder.

Beca smiles, picture of innocence -- well, a _smirky_ sort of innocence -- and shrugs. She could _swear_ she hears Chloe mumble something under her breath about "absolute fucking children," even as she chuckles.

*

The flight this time is to South Dakota. Much longer.

Beca shifts and can't resettle. Her leg keeps bouncing, sending slight, sharp pains upward from her thigh every time it makes contact with the uneven edge of the bench at the back of the plane. 

Maybe dad should look into that.

Jesse takes her hand and she stills (somewhat). They ride like this in silence for a while until Chloe calls from the front, asking Jesse to join her as co-pilot. 

He kisses Beca's cheek and releases her hand reluctantly. 

The plane shifts and he sways, laughing, "Fuck, you _do_ need help!"

*

They whisper to each other in the cockpit.

Beca tries not to imagine that every other sentence is about her.

*

(They're both drunk and clumsy, acutely aware of their own bodies and the way alcohol draws heat to the surface -- pulled from somewhere (something) inside.

Or is it only Beca? Who can't look Chloe full in the face just now without turning red.

She slumps down into sheets, turning and then tangling, and Chloe groans.

" _Shoes_ off, at least."

Then comes the belt, slow like a snake, and after that the pants and half a sleeve. She can feel Chloe's hands at her hips, gently guiding her through the room in search of spare clothing.

They settle on an overly large night shirt with Steve's shield emblazoned on the shoulder and Beca can't stop giggling that she'd like to show it to dad.

She's pretty positive she's never seen a shirt that sold a robot's bruised and damaged heart on its sleeve, so he'd probably be wildly jealous.

"Don't say anything you'll regret, stupid," Chloe says, but she stops Beca midway through pulling on the second shirt. 

Beca's voice is muffled with confusion and fabric when she grunts once, just saying, "Chlo?"

Then, clearing her throat, again: "Chloe?"

She realizes only after the fingers make contact -- starting close to her spine, then moving outward -- that Chloe is tracing a path across the marking on Beca's back. Charred flesh and circuitry. A drawn out serial number sizzled into skin. 

Chloe holds her still, one hand against the thrumming pulse at the back of her neck. Examining. Reading. "Oh, _Beca_."

She sounds so sad (so _resigned_ ) that Beca suddenly pulls away, hastening to tug down the shirt the rest of the way. "Tired," she mumbles and finds her way back into the bed.

Chloe follows close behind.

"Okay," she says against Beca's hair, pulling the covers up tight around them but leaving one hand pressed against Beca's back. Close to the exposed wires. Motherboard that runs her heart.)

*

Headline: thirty-five new charities spring up almost overnight. Endowments for the arts and resources allocated to struggling communities world wide. Most mysterious of all, every single one was founded by a Trevor Morgan, deceased for over a year.

Mr. Morgan died tragically in an explosion that has many questioning (still to this day) the wisdom in allowing a man like Tony Stark -- responsible for so much bloodshed and death -- access to such a powerful weapon as his Iron Man technology. Not to mention Mr. Stark's equally irresponsible progeny, one of the only survivors of the blast. 

It would seem that Mr. Morgan has done more from beyond the grave than the youngest Stark has managed to do so far in her still admittedly short lifetime.

*

They bring up the same old metaphors and find a way to sneak in questions about her sexuality.

Underline (and admonish) her spectacular lack of a love life -- while at the same time implying that she might just be sleeping with _every_ other Avenger, younger and old -- and top it off with speculation on how her parents could possibly do such a horrible job in raising her.

A perfect parable for a new generation. Eat your vegetables or you might just explode into a monster like Rebecca Stark.

But there's a half a page spread on the life and work of Trevor Morgan, with flattering details on his surviving family. There are phone numbers to contact each of the new non-profits, foundations, and scholarships. 

The Madison DeLuca Foundation For Young Artists is already prepared to announce its first scholarship recipient and the Abigail Parker Cancer Research Fund vows to raise $30,000 by the end of the month.

*

This isn't how it ends. It's somewhere in between.

And Beca's fine, you know. She really is.

The paper doesn't list _her_ number. She prefers it this way.


End file.
